


Magic Mirror

by Soledad



Category: Camelot (TV), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, It isn't incest when they aren't really siblings, Leontes deserved better, Magic has many ways, Morgan deserved better too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 61,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24558778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: Something goes awry when trying to repair the veil between worlds, and Merlin, Arthur and Lancelot find themselves in “Camelot’s” world. In exchange. “Camelot’s” Merlin, Arthur and Leontes end up in Uther’s kingdom. Will they survive long enough to find a way back?
Relationships: Arthur/Princess Mithian, Lancelot/Guinevere, Leontes/Princess Elena of Gawant, Merlin/Vivian
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	1. The Isle of the Blessed

**Timeframe:** after/during Ep 4.01-4.02 (“The Darkest Hour”) for “Merlin BBC”; between episodes 9 & 10 for “Camelot”. This chapter follows the end of the 4th season opener for a while. Then it gets completely AU. The spell Merlin uses to defeat the attackers is the one from the 4th Season episode “A Servant of Two Masters".

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

**CHAPTER 01 –THE ISLE OF THE BLESSED**

After the Great Dragon saves them from the Dorocha, Merlin and Lancelot catch up with Arthur and the rest of the knights. Naturally, there is much rejoicing; so much that no-one actually asks Merlin _how_ exactly has he recovered so quickly and miraculously. Which, in Lancelot’s opinion, is a good thing; admitting that magic was involved wouldn’t go down well with Arthur.

They spend the night in the ruined building. The knights are exhausted, more mentally than physically in fact, and sleep like a log. Only Merlin and Arthur are awake, lounging by the fire.

“It’s going to be fine,” Merlin promises. “Everything is going to be all right.”

It would be a ridiculous promise coming from anyone else, but has Merlin not miraculously recovered from the attack of the Dorocha? Arthur feels a secret behind that fact but chooses not to ask about the whys and wherefores.

“I’m just tired,” he says instead.

Merlin doesn’t look at him, staring at the flames thoughtfully. His angular face is strangely otherworldy, almost beautiful in the firelight.

“You don’t have to sacrifice yourself,” he says.

But the truth is that he does, and Arthur knows it.

“To save my people,” he murmurs. He feels no bitterness about it.

Merlin is still staring away from him, into the fire, and his thin face seems to glow from within, casting shadows under his sharp cheekbones.

“I will take your place,” he offers.

Arthur shakes his head. This is exactly what he’s expected from the loyal idiot.

“Merlin...” he begins, exasperated, and at that Merlin finally does look at him after all.

“What is the life of a servant compared to that of a prince?” he asks matter-of-factly.

Arthur pretends to think about it. “Well, a good servant is hard to come by,” he muses.

Merlin gives him a disbelieving look. “I’m not _that_ good,” he says flatly, and Arthur just cannot resist.

“True,” he says with a small grin.

Merlin realizes that he’s practically walked into that one and grins briefly, too. But only for a moment. The situation is too dire for such levity.

“One thing,” Arthur says after a lengthy pause. “Look after Guinevere. I want her to be happy in her life. She deserves that.”

“Don’t worry,” Merlin is looking away from him again. “I’ll make sure.”

Because he won’t allow Arthur to die, that much is certain. That would mean that Morgana would win, and Merlin is not about to allow _that_.

Neither of them notices Lancelot watching them from afar.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the morning they finally come within eyesight with the Isle of the Blessed. It sits in the middle of Lake Meredor, barely visible on the horizon, shrouded in mist, a red dawn breaking behind it. They can see some tall towers or spires rising from it, black against the redness of the sky. It seems incredibly far away, well beyond their reach.

“The Isle of the Blessed,” Arthur comments, rather unnecessarily.

“But how do we get there?” Elyan asks doubtfully.

Arthur shrugs. “Gaius said something about a ferryman...”

“ _The_ Ferryman,” Merlin corrects and points at the small boat approaching them, with a lantern hanging from its high, arched prow and a hooded and cloaked old man sitting crouched right behind it. “You better have a gold coin ready.”

“What for?” Arthur wonders, but Merlin doesn’t need to answer, because at the same moment the boat reaches the shore and a gnarled old hand reaches out from under the battered dark cloak, waiting for the fare with an upturned palm.

“You know where we are going,” Merlin says quietly to the Ferryman, while Arthur is fumbling with his purse to find a gold coin and place it in that waiting palm.

The gnarled old hand closes around the coin and the boat turns on its own, lining up with the shore, so that the knights can get in. There is clearly magic in work, the old man is perchance a sorcerer if he can make his boat move without the use of a paddle, but Arthur cannot be picky about that right now. This is the only way to reach the Isle of the Blessed, so he is going to use it and that’s it.

“What are you waiting for?” he barks. “Get in!”

The boat, guided by the sheer willpower of the silent Ferryman, glides noiselessly upon the still dark waters. Their journey is not half as long as they thought. They reach the Isle of the Blessed before it would become full morning, although the darkness still surrounding the Isle itself clearly comes from somewhere else.

Perhaps it comes from the tear, Arthur thinks.

High above them there is screeching and cawing – ravens or probably crows, but they can’t actually see any of the birds. They are travelling on the canals of the Isle already; left and right the ruins of some ancient buildings, probably temples, cast shadows upon the water. The canals are filled with mist.

The boat now passes through a dark tunnel under one of the buildings and it finally moors in a small bay adjoining a pentagonal, stone-pawed courtyard with a well in the centre, surrounded by crumbling stone walls. Some of said walls have fallen so much that they can easily climb over them, relieved to have solid earth – well, stone, actually – under their feet again.

The screeching gets louder above their heads, and Sir Leon spots a dark, winged creature high in the blood-red skies. It most definitely doesn’t look like a raven or a crow.

“What is that?” he asks.

Gwaine draws his sword, his face grim. “I really hope I’m wrong,” he mutters, as the others follow suit. But he isn’t, and he knows it.

“Wyvern!” Arthur cries out warningly as the winged beast flies down at them, rapidly like a falling rock. More of its kind follow, attacking the knights viciously. Percival gets slashed and falls to the ground.

“You are right,” he yells in Gwaine’s direction.

Merlin crouches down to hide his face as he whispers in the ancient tongue of dragons, a tongue older than the spells of the Old Religion – the only tongue dragons and their kin obey.

“ _S'enthend' apokhorein nun epello-o-o_!“ he murmurs under his breath. He rises, his eyes glow briefly with the inner fire of his magic, and the wyverns turn away.

Gwaine looks after them with a confident grin. “See? That’s how you deal with them,” he declares proudly.

He has no idea about Merlin’s interference, which is fine as far as Merlin is concerned. He doesn’t want them to know – not yet.

“We need to keep going,” Arthur warns them.

They continue their way to the centre of the Isle through other ruined buildings. Unfortunately, more wyverns fly overhead, and Merlin is unable to act. He is too visible right now.

“Sire, you must go on!” Sir Leon cries out. “We’ll fend them off.”

He gestures to Percival and Elyan to remain outside with them, to handle the wyverns.

“Good luck!” Gwaine calls back and hurries after Arthur, Merlin and Lancelot.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The four of them reach, at least the central square of the Isle. It is full day by now, but the square is shrouded in twilight, the tear clearly visible behind the altar stone. It is pulsing like a living thing, throwing up new waves of darkness by each pulse.

The cloaked figure of a woman shows up in front of the tear, as if taking shape from the darkness itself, holding a black staff with three claw-like appliances on top of it. Her deeply lined face is deathly pale in the shadow of her wide hood, framed by long grey hair.

Merlin recognizes her at once: it is the Cailleach, the gatekeeper of the spirit world.

“It is not often we have visitors,” she says in a calm, somewhat hollow voice. 

It sounds almost shockingly normal, as if they were sitting in the kitchens of Camelot, having tea. But Arthur is not in the mood for idle conversation.

“Put an end to this,” he orders curtly. “I demand you heal the tear between the two worlds.”

The Cailleach is clearly not impressed.

“It was not I who created this horror,” she returns. “Why should it be I that stops it?”

“Because innocent people are dying!” Merlin blurts out. The callousness with which some magic users – or magical creatures – dismiss the suffering of the innocent still grates him every time.

Cailleach laughs maniacally. “Indeed?”

This is too much for Gwaine – the only one who does not know what the others are planning to do. With a mighty yell, he draws his sword and launches an attack at the Cailleach.

She hurls him back with a negligent gesture of her staff, knocking him out cold.

“Is this the best you can do?” she taunts them.

Lancelot makes a furtive attempt to move but Arthur stops him with a raised hand.

“I know what you want,” he then says to the Cailleach.

She raises an eyebrow. “Do you? And are you willing to let me have it?”

“I'm prepared to pay whatever price is necessary,” Arthur replies, ignoring Merlin’s death glare.

A pleased smile on her face, the Cailleach beckons him with the index finger of her left hand. Without a moment of hesitation, Arthur starts walking toward her determinedly. Merlin follows, muttering under his breath, “ _Forb fleoghe_ ”.

His eyes glow briefly and the spell stops Arthur and throws him backwards, knocking him unconscious. 

The Cailleach looks at Merlin and they both approach the altar stone, circling it slowly, keeping equal distance.

“So, Emrys, you choose to challenge me after all,” she says. “Will you give yourself to the spirits to save your Prince?”

“It is my destiny,” Merlin answers, his voice steady.

“Perhaps,” the Cailleach answers in an almost grandmotherly manner. “But your time among men is not yet over, Emrys, even if you want it to be.”

Merlin stares at her, confused. The Cailleach looks at her left, where Lancelot has crept up to the tear in the veil, and Merlin follows her gaze. Lancelot is standing at the brink. There is some horrible screaming on the other side of the tear, but the young knight doesn’t seem afraid. He looks back at Merlin with a barely visible smile.

“I made a _vow_ , Merlin, remember?” he says.

Then he nods as if saying farewell and walks right into the tear with outstretched arms.

“No!” Merlin cries out in despair. “No! No! No! You mustn’t!”

Without thinking, he runs after Lancelot to stop him, but it is too late. They both disappear in the tear, in the very moment when Arthur regains consciousness… just in time to see what they are doing.

“Merlin, you idiot!” He clambers to his feet with an angry shout, launching after his manservant before his mind would have caught up what is really happening.

The tear flickers and shrinks, then it is gone. 

When Sir Leon, Elyan and Percival come in running, the courtyard with the altar stone is empty. Only Gwaine is still lying near one of the surrounding walls, unconscious. Of Arthur, Merlin or Lancelot there is no trace.

A moment later the tear reappears, flickering briefly, and spits out two people. Then it closes again, this time for good.

Sir Leon looks down at the two confused men and his mien darkens considerably because they are people he has never seen before.

Something must have gone horribly wrong, and he is determined to find out what it was.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They stumble through darkness as thick and sticky as endless layers of cobwebs and are understandably shocked when – instead of the dark, mournful fields of the Otherworld – they come out into bright daylight... in the middle of a battle.

Typically, on the losing side.

Calling it an actual _battle_ might be an exaggeration, though. It’s more like a tough dogfight between two fairly small groups of men – one besieging a fortified manor, protected by a simple wooden palisade, the other one defending it – but no less desperate for the limited size of their numbers. There are archers on both sides, fairly good ones, and the ones engaged in hand-to-hand combat use everything as a weapon they can lay their hands on: from swords and axes through their shields down to wooden ewers.

They people on either side are wearing clothes that seem a little odd, compared with the usual Camelot fashion, and some of the defenders are clearly not regular troops but simple farmers, protecting their home. Those who seem to be warriors have mail shirts or leather armour, and they are obviously not willing to take any prisoners.

On Merlin’s left, a fair-haired young man with an honest, bearded face has already gone down, wounded by an arrow dangerously close to the heart. But it is not his own life he’s concerned about.

“Arthur!” he cries out in a strangled voice. “Look out!”

And indeed, he’s staring in the direction where the confused young Crown Prince of Camelot is attacked by several men, with only Lancelot to protect him.

In that moment something snaps in Merlin. He doesn’t think, doesn’t consider what he could – or _should_ – do... just reacts. Extending his hand, he feels the magic bubble in him like a hot spring, and his voice is hoarse as he casts his spell.

 _Ic her aciege anne windræs! Færblæd wawe! Windræs ungetermed – ge hiere! Ic ðe bebiede mid ealle strangnesse ðæt ðu geblæwest ond sierest strange!_ *

Immediately, a great force like a whirlwind sweeps over them, hurling the attackers against the rockside with broken bones and, in some cases, broken heads. Merlin shakes himself like a wet dog and, in for a brass, in for a sovereign, kneels down next to the wounded young man.

“Say still!” he says. “Removing an arrow is much more delicate work than smashing a few heads.”

Fortunately, the arrow has gone clean through, so Merlin can break off the arrowhead and pull out the shaft. Then he begins to weave a series of healing spells that will stop the bleeding and prevent infection. The wound will need a proper dressing later, but he’s doing what he can for now.

All the time, he can feel Arthur stare at him in open-mouthed shock. But he has no time to deal with Arthur right now. Explanations can wait. The wounded young man cannot.

When he is finally done he’s so tired as if he’d fought through the skirmish these people – whoever they are – were fighting here… wherever _here_ is. The attackers have retreated in the meantime, leaving their dead and injured behind, and the defenders have begun to deal with the aftermath of the battle.

A lean, sandy-haired man of about forty, clad in the rough garb of a minor noble who lives in an outlying village to tend to his own lands, comes over and proffers Merlin his hand.

“Whoever you may be, sir, you saved us all, and for that you have our gratitude. My name is Lucan; this is my manor, and I watch Bardon Pass for the King.”

“Yeah, but where _is_ the King?” a big, burly warrior clad in leather armour from head to toe, asks in suspicion. “Where is Arthur?”

“And where is Leontes?” this from a blonde beauty, glaringly out of place in these rural surroundings. “What have you done with him?”

Merlin blinks in confusion. Several times. None of what they are saying makes any sense.

“What do you mean?” he asks back. “Arthur is right here – but he is not King yet. Not by title anyway, as long as his father still lives. And I don’t know anyone named Leontes. Or do you mean Lancelot here?” he gestures at the knight who is watching his surroundings with equal confusion.

The big warrior shakes his head. “I don’t know who this man is, but he’s sure as hell _not_ Arthur. I wish he were; we’d be better off with him than with our so-called King.”

Arthur finally recovers enough from his shock to get angry. “You dare to question my identity? All right, then; I challenge you to trial by combat. We’ll see which one of us is lying.”

The warrior remains unimpressed. “I accept. Make your peace with God – you’ll meet Him shortly.”

“Aren’t the two of you forgetting something?” Merlin interrupts. “We are sitting in a besieged house. It would be reasonable to deal with the attackers first and return to your personal squabble when we’re all safe again.”

Lucan, the lord of the manor, sighs. “We cannot leave here. Bardon Pass is the main trade route into Camelot. If we lose control over it, word will spread of our weakness and our entire land could come under threat.”

“So Arthur said,” the warrior allows. “But we don’t even know _who_ is threatening us.”

“In that case, perhaps you should try to capture one of the enemy leaders and question them,” Lancelot suggests.

The warrior and Lord Lucan exchange thoughtful looks.

“He’s right,” the warrior says. “The big, fat man leading the attack is still alive. We should capture him and drag him in. With a little torture we might learn who is behind this.”

Lancelot grins. “Torture won’t be necessary. I’m sure Merlin can… er… persuade him to tell you everything you want to know.”

“Merlin?” echoes the warrior with a frown. “Merlin’s not even here.”

Now it’s Merlin’s turn to get angry. “What do you mean I’m not here? Are you blind or what?”

The warrior gives him a measuring look. “You may be a powerful sorcerer, I’ll give you that, boy, but you are certainly not Merlin. I have known the man for the better part of a year, and I can tell beyond doubt that you’re not him.”

“And I’ve known Merlin for more than three years, and I can tell you that he is indeed who he says he is,” Arthur replies; then, with an icy glare at his manservant, he adds. “Though how he has managed to hide the fact that he is a sorcerer in all those years is beyond me.”

“You’re not very observant, you know,” Merlin comments breezily. “And in case you’ve forgotten, I had to hide what I am, or your father would have had me beheaded. Or burnt on the stake. Or whatever else hit his fancy at any given week. Forgive me for not wanting to die!”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Arthur promises stiffly, and it’s not a promise Merlin is really looking forward to it. “Right now, it’s more important to find out where we are, how we got here and who’s trying to kill us.”

Lord Lucan nods in agreement. “I’m all for the last part. Sir Gawain, my son will lead you along hidden paths to the enemy’s camp tonight. Two of my men will go with you to help carrying back the prisoner.”

The warrior nods, Arthur, Merlin and Lancelot look at each other in surprise.

“ _Gawain_?” they ask in unison.

That sounds suspiciously like _Gwaine_ , and that makes everything only more confusing.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
* Here I summon every storm of wind! Sudden blast of wind, blow! You, strong and unstoppable storm of wind, obey! I command you with all my power to blow and devastate violently!


	2. Leontes's Awakening

The last memory of Leontes is throwing himself in the way of an arrow, shielding his ungrateful young King with his own body. He does not remember actually being hit by said arrow, but it is safe to assume that the place he finds himself, suddenly and without any recognizable transition, must be the dark, mournful fields of the Otherworld.

Or so he thinks. 

The more surprised he is when, among blood-churling shrieks, the absolute blackness seems to shrink speedily, giving room to the pale red light of early dawn. The fact that he’s being glared at by a handful of very angry men with drawn swords, wearing identical mail shirts, only adds to his confusion.

Their leader, a blond, bearded man who reminds Leontes vaguely of Sir Kay, without any actual resemblance, touches the tip of his sword to Leontes’s throat.

“Who are you?” he demands. “And what have you done to Arthur?”

His speech is foreign-sounding but well understandable, which makes Leontes doubt that he’s truly dead, after all.

As for the selfish brat of a King, he can see Arthur from the corner of his eye: bruised and battered but very much alive.

“What do you mean?” he asks, more than a little confused. “Arthur is right there, where he fell when I pushed him out of the way of an arrow meant to kill him.”

The bearded warrior gestures to one of his comrades to take over holding Leontes at swordpoint and asks another one for a torch, calling him Gawain... well, not exactly _Gawain_ but something similar. It sounds more like _Gwaine_ , in truth, though that might be just his strange accent.

A warrior with a narrow, hawkish face and slightly long hair who has _no_ resemblance to Gawain whatsoever – the only thing they have in common is a short-trimmed beard – brings the required torch and holds it close to the boy King, who glares up at him defiantly.

“This is _not_ Arthur,” he declares in the same foreign-sounding language that is nonetheless clearly some kind of English. “Just a scrawny kid that has no business running around with a sword meant for grown-ups, let alone pretending to be a King. He’s an impostor, Sir Leon.”

“And there’s no sign of either Merlin or Lancelot,” adds the warrior currently holding Leontes at swordpoint. 

He uses the same foreign-sounding speech as the others. His bare arms are large like tree-trunks in the sleeveless mail shirt and his hair is short-cropped, like that of a slave.

Leontes is startled. Why would they look for Merlin, of all people, and who the hell is that Lancelot? Who are _they_ , for that matter, and on whose side might they be fighting?

“Merlin wasn’t with us at the Pass,” he offers carefully. “What good would he be for us? He’s a sorcerer, not a warrior. Besides, he went with Queen Igraine to Castle Pendragon, to confront Morgan.”

Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say, because the swordpoint presses a little harder against his throat. Hard enough to draw blood.

“I’d think twice before accusing Merlin of something that could get him executed,” the bare-armed warrior hisses. “He’s just a boy and would never harm anyone.”

“Not the Merlin _I know_ ,” replies Leontes darkly because frankly, he never felt comfortable around the sorcerer and his shadowy agendas.

He’s still mad at Merlin for pressing him into going to Bardon Pass with Arthur. He was a stout supporter of King Uther all his life but lately he’s begun to ask himself if he was doing the right thing, supporting the bastard son against the legitimate daughter, just because Merlin said it had been Uther’s wish.

“Besides,” adds the false Gawain... Gwaine.... whatever, bringing Leontes back to the here and now, “the Queen is dead. Has been for over twenty years. She died giving birth to Arthur.”

“Not where I come from, she didn’t,” says Leontes, getting the feeling that something very odd is going on.

“Where would _that_ be and who _are_ you then?” asks the lead warrior whom the others called Sir Leon. 

He is clearly a nobleman of some importance, and Leontes hopes that he can be reasoned with. Otherwise his life isn’t worth a brass.

“My name is Leontes,” he says carefully. “I am a landed lord of Britain and was King Uther’s champion. After his death I pledged myself to his son, Arthur; for it was the King’s wish that Arthur should become King after him, despite the fact that his daughter, Princess Morgan, had the legitimate claim on the throne. Or so Merlin tells us.”

If he thinks he’s persuaded the foreign warrior of his sincerity, though, he is mistaken.

“Interesting,” Sir Leon says languidly. “If what you say is true, then how is it possible that I, who have served at the court of King Uther – who is very much alive, by the way – since the age of ten, have never heard of you? And _that_ ,” he adds, pointing with his sword at the boy King, “is most certainly _not_ Arthur Pendragon. I’ve known our Prince since he was but a babe on arms – in fact, I _held_ him in my arms as a babe and was his sparring partner when he first learned to fight with wooden swords as a child –, so I would recognize him on sight beyond doubt. I do not recognize _this_ boy; therefore you are lying.”

There are grim nods of agreement all around, and Leontes is beginning to worry for his life in earnest, when somebody calls out. “Sir Leon, wait!” 

The new voice belongs to a warrior Leontes first thinks might be Ulfius but then sees that he’s not. They have the same dark skin and short-cropped, woolly hair, but the stranger’s features are more refined, even though his hands are rough and scarred, beyond the calluses one would expect from a warrior. Those are the hands of a man who’s worked hard all his life; the burn marks suggest a blacksmith or a farrier.

“We are on the Isle of the Blessed, the very focus of magic,” the dark warrior continues. “What if some sort of exchange has taken place? Perhaps the veil doesn’t only open to the Otherworld but also to different worlds of the living. Worlds where things are... well, _different_ ,” he adds, a little lamely. “I’ve never heard of this Britain on all my journeys across the Five Kingdoms, but what if it is a different version of our Albion?”

Sir Leon frowns, clearly not persuaded. “You know about such things, Sir Elyan?”

“Not really,” admits the dark warrior. “But Gaius might. Or Master Geoffrey.”

Sir Leon glances at the warrior named Gwaine. “What do you think, Sir Gwaine? You have travelled far and seen stranger things than the rest of us together.”

Gwaine shrugs. “Let’s take them to Camelot. We need to leave here anyway, and once at home, Gaius and Master Geoffrey can see into the issue properly.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The others agree and Leontes is finally released from being held by swordpoint – under the condition that he won’t try to flee. He gives his word, since he wouldn’t know _where_ to flee anyway. The dark warrior whose name is apparently Elyan is assigned to keep an eye on him. He doesn’t mind. This Sir Elyan (whatever the title means) seems to be an honest soul – _and_ he reminds Leontes of Ulfius, another faithful and honest man.

Such are the small comforts of the memory of home when one is lost in a world not his own,

Arthur chooses to be an obnoxious brat again, refusing to go with them willingly and demanding that they let him go back. In the end, Sir Leon loses patience with him and orders the big warrior who held Leontes at swordpoint to tie the boy up and gag him, lest he’d get them in trouble with the ruckus he’s making.

The big man, whom the others call Sir Percival, executes his orders with calm efficiency, ignoring Arthur’s curses and struggles, as he would ignore the hissing of a kitten. Arthur glares at Leontes accusingly over the dirty piece of cloth shoved into his mouth, but Leontes ignores him, too. As he told Merlin before riding to Bardon Pass, he’s all but done with Camelot in general and its snot-nosed King in particular, and wishes nothing more than to return to his village and leave his unfaithful wife behind to warn the King’s bed if that is what she wants.

He is done with her, too.

As returning home doesn’t seem to be an option right now, Leontes decides to cooperate, at least for the time being. If nothing else, that will allow him to move around on his own, unlike Arthur whom Sir Percival has thrown over his shoulder like a sack of wheat, having him hand upside down as they navigate the narrow paths between the ancient ruins the purpose of which he can’t even begin to guess. 

The foreign warriors seem to know where they are going, though, so he decides to trust them.

After some turning and meandering along, they reach a pentagonal courtyard paved with grey, withered stone, surrounded by crumbling stone walls. They climb over the walls at their lowest point and come to a small bay, in which a narrow boat is moored. A lantern is hanging from its arched prow, and under it a hooded and cloaked old man is sitting. His face is shadowed by the hood beyond recognition; only his upturned hand can be seen, as he’s clearly waiting for the fare.

“Do you have a gold coin for the Ferryman?” Sir Gwaine asks. “He won’t accept anything else.”

Sir Leon looks surprised… and not in a good way.

“Prince Arthur had all our coin,” he realises. 

Sir Gwaine pulls a face. “Fantastic! Now we’re stuck on this cursed isle! I only have a few brass pieces. What about you, Elyan?”

The dark warrior shakes his head and so does Sir Percival. The warriors exchange helpless looks. The Ferryman remains unmoved, waiting with the patience of old stone.

“Here,” Leontes fumbles with his drawstring purse and fishes out the only gold piece he’s ever had; the one received at his wedding. “Take this.”

He doesn’t want to be reminded of his wedding anyway – the day in the very morning of which his bride chose to give her maidenhood to Arthur, only to lie to him in the evening - and he has the feeling that the sooner they get off this enchanted isle the better.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” asks Sir Leon in surprise.

Leontes shakes his head. The ancient gold coin, a relic from Roman times, was a wedding gift from Arthur – the price of Guinevere’s maidenhood, in truth, only he did not know at that time – and he is glad to be rid of it. If it will serve to get them to safety, all the better.

Sir Leon accepts then, nods his thanks and drops the coin into the Ferryman’s gnarled hand, whereupon they are allowed to get into the boat, Sir Percival throwing Arthur in not too gently. Leontes gets in after Sir Elyan and is startled when the boat starts moving without any visible means to steer it. He would like to ask how it is possible but sees that the warriors are uncomfortable, too, and thinks it better to remain silent.

The boat passes through a dark tunnel under one of the ruined buildings and continues its way along a network of narrow canals, seamed by more crumbling ruins left and right. The canals are filled with mist, and high above them loud screeching and cawing can be heard. Leontes thinks they might be ravens or perhaps crows, though he can’t actually see any birds.

The sound seems to unsettle the warriors, though.

“Dear me, not those cursed wyverns again!” swears Sir Gwaine. “I thought we have dealt with them on the Isle itself.”

Leontes has no idea what a wyvern is but it’s clearly something unpleasant. Sir Leon, though, shakes his head.

“I don’t think we’d be in danger as long as we’re in the boat,” he says. “And they are said to be bound to the Isle; once we’re out on the open water we ought to be safe.”

“Your word in God’s ear,” mutters Sir Elyan, looking up at the now fully blue sky in mistrust. There can be seen some small, winged shapes high up – and they don’t have the shape of birds, not really.

“What are those?” asks Leontes, Sir Elyan’s nerves rubbing off on him.

“Wyverns,” explains the dark warrior, not very helpfully.

Leontes rolls his eyes. “And what on earth _are_ wyverns?”

“Distant cousins of the dragons,” supplies Sir Gwaine. “Only smaller and unable to breathe fire. Also, they are deeply stupid.”

“Stupid, but deadly, and with an unhealthy appetite for human flesh,” mutters Sir Elyan. “The whole Isle is infested with them,” he pulls up the long, torn sleeve of his mail shirt and shows Leontes a deep gash upon his forearm that has already begun to show signs of infection. “Their talons are like meat hooks – razor sharp and filthy, too.”

“You should show that arm a healer as soon as you can,” advises Leontes. “I’ve seen men lose limbs because of an infected wound.”

The dark warrior nods. “I know; so have I. Unfortunately, Merlin was our leech. The closest healer is his mentor, Master Gaius in Camelot. Which is another reason why I wish to get home, soon.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the meantime they have cleared the Isle and the boat is now gliding upon the still, dark waters of a big lake that Sir Leon calls the Mere of Meredor. It is really huge as lakes go; were the water not smooth like the surface of a mirror, Leontes might believe they were at sea. 

The shore seems beyond reach at first, just as a vague line on the horizon, but the strange boat glides upon the unmoving water as if driven by magic – and really, what else could speed it forward so steadily? Leontes thinks of Merlin and his supposed powers as a sorcerer and has to ask himself if the man is truly such a rare marvel when some hunch-backed old ferryman can move a boat full of grown men across a lake this large without breaking a sweat.

When they finally reach the shore, the Ferryman turns the boat around without a word… without a backward glance, in fact, and everyone seems relieved to part ways with him. Leontes doesn’t blame them. The old man is an eerie sight, wrapped into silence like in a cloak, and there is no way to tell what else he is capable of.

Sir Percival places a bruised and battered Arthur under a suitable tree and vanishes in the forest that reaches down almost to the water. A little later he comes back, leading a bunch of horses on the rein. Leontes makes a quick count in his head. There are four warriors and seven horses. There of the well-fed, well-groomed beasts have no riders. They must belong to the missing people: _their_ Arthur, _their_ Merlin and that Lancelot they’ve been speaking of.

Sir Leon leads a magnificent steed to Leontes.

“To reach Camelot, we have to travel several days,” he says. “Take the Prince’s horse; Lancelot’s doesn’t suffer strangers kindly, and Merlin’s isn’t worthy to carry a nobleman. Sir Percival, take the brat with you and see that he doesn’t escape. We set off at once. Time is an issue right now.”


	3. At Bardon Pass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines of dialogue are quoted from the Camelot episode.

**CHAPTER 03 – AT BARDON PASS**

While they are waiting for nightfall, Arthur manages to get the situation at Bardon Pass under control. It doesn’t even take long; nor costs it him much effort. Unlike his namesake from this world, the Crown Prince of Camelot is a seasoned warrior and an excellent strategist who has been trained for his future role as King all his life – and excels in that role, even in these strange environs.

He also knows how to delegate. He sends Lancelot – who, due to his origins, is familiar with the way the common folk thinks and speaks – to build with the help of Lord Lucan’s household all sorts of crude yet effective traps, using whatever they can find in the outbuildings, to stop the attackers at various distances from the house itself.

He sends Merlin to look after the wounded. He assigns the big, burly warrior he still can’t quite call Gawain to the task of placing the remaining archers in the key positions. Then he sits down with Lord Lucan and the dark warrior who strongly reminds him of Elyan and whose name is apparently Ulfius to learn more about this bewildering place where they had accidentally landed.

“Britain is not a united realm,” Lord Lucan explains. “It consists of a number of petty kingdoms, the Kings of which are in constant conflicts with each other, over chunks of land, trade routes and the likes. Until recently, King Uther and King Lot were the most powerful ones, both aspiring for the title and role of the High King.”

Arthur nods. The kingdoms of Albion may be stronger and more glamorous, but unfortunately, the situation is quite similar.

“So who won?” he asks.

“No-one,” answers Lord Lucan with a sigh. “They are both dead. King Uther died first, leaving only one legitimate child behind: Princess Morgan, born to him by his first wife. Or so we thought. Until the sorcerer Merlin showed up with the King’s writ that – according to Uther’s wish – his bastard son, Arthur should follow him on the throne.”

Arthur finds it interesting how everything is reversed here: Uther is dead, his daughter is the rightful heir, his son the unacknowledged bastard…

“Do your laws not allow a woman to rule?” he asks.

“They don’t _forbid_ it,” replies Lord Lucan cautiously. “Although as our Kings are little more than savage warlords, a Queen might have a hard time getting the realm under control. But that is not the true reason. King Uther always hated his daughter.”

“Why?” Arthur is shocked. His own father might not acknowledge Morgana, but he’s always doted on her… not that it would do him any good.

“Because she reminds him of his sin,” Lord Lucan replies grimly.

“What sin?” Lancelot, returning for a drink of water, asks with interest.

“That he used sorcery to take on the shape of the Duke of Cornwall and so seduce his wife, the Lady Igraine. That’s how _our_ Arthur has been conceived,” explains Lord Lucan. “There are rumours that he had Morgan’s mother, Queen Anna, murdered, just like Igraine’s husband, so that he could claim her as his own. How much of this is true, I cannot tell, but Morgan was sent to a convent as a very young girl and not allowed to return – until shortly, right before the King’s death.”

“Your King must have dabbled in sorcery extensively if he could manage a transformation spell,” comments Merlin.

He’s finished treating the wounded and has joined them to listen to the tale. Lord Lucan snorts.

“Him, casting a spell? Ridiculous! The King couldn’t even write, beyond his own name; most nobles cannot. Nay, that was all Merlin… _our_ Merlin, I mean, though I am a bit reluctant to admit any connection to him.”

“Why is that?” is Arthur imagining things or does Merlin really sound indignant on his counterpart’s behalf?

“Because he follows his own agenda and doesn’t care who gets hurt in the process,” replies Lord Lucan darkly. “No-one can tell what that agenda truly is, but we all have our doubts. They say, he is hundreds of years old, though he looks no older than I do. He took Queen Igraine’s baby, right after his birth, and gave it to Lord Ector of the Marshes and to his wife to raise the boy along with their own son. Then, after King Uther’s death he took the boy from his foster parents again, ordered the warriors dwelling in Castle Pendragon in the King’s name to follow him and the Queen to Camelot – an old, ruined castle at the sea – and somehow cajoled them into pledging themselves to Arthur. I still don’t know how.”

“He told us it was the King’s dying wish and showed us the writ,” says Ulfius, the dark warrior. “Some of us can read; Leontes, for one. He checked the writ and confirmed that the sorcerer was saying the truth. It had the King’s name under it, drawn by his own hand. We could not turn our backs on the King’s last decree. I wish we could.”

“Are you not happy with your new King?” asks Lancelot quietly.

Ulfius shrugs. “He’s but a sorcerer’s puppet; unlearned and untrained to be a leader of men. _And_ he has seduced Leontes’s bride, on their wedding day. He’s not better than his father was; but at least his father could keep the kingdom under control.”

He is clearly disillusioned, which is a dangerous thing while waiting for a battle to happen, and Arthur does not know how top lift his spirits.

Lord Lucan shakes his head. “Would you prefer Morgan on the throne? Her first move after her father’s death was to offer an alliance to King Lot, Uther’s greatest enemy.”

“And what other choice did she have?” returns Ulfius sharply. “She _is_ the rightful heir, and she was wronged. To whom else could she have turned for help, after we were ordered away, to leave Castle Pendragon undefended? To the sorcerer who has schemed to shove her to the side for twenty years, to put Uther’s bastard on the throne?”

“You said it yourself: it was the King’s wish and his hand-sign under the writ,” Lord Lucan reminds him.

Ulfius makes a derogatory snort. “Yeah, but it’s been _Merlin’s_ plan from the beginning. We’ve been but pawns in his game – and I don’t like being used. Not for a sorcerer’s scheme.”

“You’re just pissed off because you had to leave the court and dwell in some godforsaken ruin,” a bearded warrior whom the others call Brastias says teasingly. “You’re afraid that the fair Vivian won’t follow you to Camelot.”

“Who is Vivian?” asks Merlin, wondering if King Olaf and his scatter-brained daughter may also have their counterparts here.

“Oh, just some serving wench whose ancestors were brought to Britain from the far South as slaves by the Romans,” Brastias explains with a shrug. “She’s served in Castle Pendragon all her life, and Ulfius has been sweet on her for just about that long.”

Ulfius protests, but Arthur doesn’t really listen to him anymore. His mind is preoccupied with more important things. Like how they are supposed to capture the enemy leader – and keep the manor house intact in the process.

“Are you done with the traps and fortifications?” he asks Lancelot, and the knight nods.

“We did everything we could with what little we had to work with,” he says. “I’d suggest that we rest, sire. Nightfall is still about an hour away, and we’ll need all our strength for this little manoeuvre.”

Arthur realises the wisdom in Lancelot’s words.

“You are right, Lancelot. I’ll do as you suggest… after I’ve given our enemies something to think about,” he adds with a dark little smile.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the enemy camp Wallace, a thick-set, experienced warrior and the leader of the attack troops, stands leaning on his sword, and watches the fortified manor house from narrowed eyes. Currently there are no men on the walls but he knows the battle is far from over yet. 

He is particularly worried about the archers of Lord Lucan, who have proved to be better shots than expected – and about the warriors the boy King’s brought with him. Even though their low numbers surprised him.

“I still can’t believe that they came, exactly as Morgan predicted,” he says. “That they would walk into such an obvious trap with their eyes wide open. A child would have seen through it.”

Harwel, Princess Morgan’s champion – dark, handsome and very obviously in lust with his lady – shrugs and grins.

”She knows her family well,” he comments. “She swore her brother wouldn't ignore a lost cause.”

Wallace shakes his head and scowls. “A lost case, you say? When this battle started, we outnumbered them, four to one. We’ve lost two third of our men in the first encounter.”

Harwel shrugs again. “I warned you not to underestimate them. Morgan says they're highly trained.”

”I know,” Wallace replies sourly. “We'll have to keep them locked in until we can get more men, so that we can launch another open attack again.”

”Perfect,” Harwel grins. “A King to the slaughter. This is my way to Morgan. I'll deliver her the king's sword. She'll be on her knees to me in gratitude.”

For his part Wallace seriously doubts that Princess Morgan would sink to her knees to _anyone_ – unless such a gesture would further whatever scheme she’s working on – but he doesn’t waste his breath on trying to sober up the besotted, delusional fool. He has a new strategy to work out, since the straightforward attack hasn’t worked out… and he’s got a bad feeling about this. The defenders of the besieged manor house have been suspiciously silent. He’s sure they’re up to something.

His brooding is interrupted by somebody appearing on the wall. It is a tall, fair-headed young man, carrying a great sword, but too broadly built to be the boy King. He is also wearing a knee-length mail shirt none of them has seen before: one made of interlinked steel rings, and a dark red cape embroidered with a gold dragon falls in heavy folds from his broad shoulders.

“Is that all you've got?” he calls out in a ringing voice that carries easily to the enemy camp. 

It is the voice of a field commander, used to make himself heard and understood by the furthest positioned troops. 

“This land belongs to your King. And we will protect it to the death,” he adds warningly.

There is utter self-confidence in that statement, and Wallace grows cold with dread. He doesn’t know who this warrior is and how he’s managed to sneak into the manor house before their very nose. He only knows that had the boy King half the charisma and strength of personality this stranger displays, he’d follow Arthur to hell and back, too.

Harwell, in his madness, remains unimpressed, of course.

“They're taunting us, Wallace,” he hisses. “Are you enjoying being taunted?”

Wallace, however, isn’t ready to tumble headlong into another fight. Not before daybreak. Not with the unknown warrior within the walls. He shakes his head.

“I've sent for reinforcements,” he says. “They're too good for us to attack just on level numbers. More so with that new player in the game,” he waves in the direction of the wall.

Harwel all but pouts. “I promised Morgan I would take Arthur's sword from his dead body. I will not let her down. King Arthur dies at our hands. Here. Tonight.”

 _Or we’ll be slaughtered to the last man at the hands of his allies_ , Wallace thinks unhappily, but there’s little he can do. He is in command of the men-at-arms, but Harwel speaks for Princess Morgan and thus has the deciding word.

“We live to serve Queen Morgan,” is all he says.

Protected by a powerful invisibility spell, Merlin smiles grimly.

 _We’ll see about that_ , he thinks; then he turns around and sneaks back into the manor house.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After nightfall, Wallace reluctantly gathers his remaining men and the reinforcements that have arrived and divides them in two groups. He sends the first group in as a distraction and keeps the better trained, more reliable men with him.

“Be careful,” he warns them all. “They must have set up some traps inside. Watch your steps, lest you end up in a hole full of sharpened sticks. That would be a painful and very messy death.”

The men nod grimly. They climb the outer walls, listening to any noise that could tell them the whereabouts of the defenders. No-one offers them any resistance, which makes Harwel’s chest swell with stupid pride. He’s sure they’ve beaten the defenders already.

Wallace’s anxiety, however, grows with each new step. The whole situation smells more and more like a trap… and there has been no sign of the first group ever since they went in. He doesn’t like it.

“It’s been too long,” he murmurs worriedly. Then he turns to the second group. “Your turn now. But look out for traps.”

He leaves Harwel behind in the camp – doesn’t want the overzealous fool to get them all killed out of sheer impatience – and leads the men personally as they approach the house. Suddenly, there are flaming arrows flying by them, hitting bales of straw that have obviously been piled up on the inner side of the palisade. Trapping them in a ring of fire.

The men panic and stumble forward to escape the flames – straight into the thin rope that has been fixed at ankle-height, bringing them to fall, making them vulnerable. Two of them die on the spot, with arrows in their throats; the others scramble to their feet and run towards the house.

Wallace barrels after them, his worries momentarily overcome by rage.

They lose another man before reaching the house, and once inside, they are stopped by the strange warrior… and another one, clad in a similar mail shirt. That one may or may not be the boy King; the slender build would match, but they can’t see his face. They both fight like demons, and Wallace’s concerns resurface at once.

“Separate them from each other!” he barks, and his men understand the strategy at once.

Even so, they have a hard time to corner the two warriors, and another man falls, a thrown sword embedding itself in his chest. Wallace recognizes the sword, of course – who wouldn’t? They’ve all seen it often enough. It is Arthur’s.

“We’ll end this, here and now.” He says grimly. “Griffith, bring forth the bolos.”

His lieutenant takes out the long, thin leather tongs, weighted with steel balls on both ends and throws them at the second warrior who may or may not be Arthur. The tongs wrap themselves around the legs of the warrior and he falls backwards.

“We’ve got him,” says Wallace with grim satisfaction. He pulls the sword out of the dead man’s chest and hands it to Griffith. “Take the sword to Harwel as fast as you can. I’ll finish the boy.”

Griffith scurries off with the sword and Wallace turns to the fallen warrior to give him the rest. The young man blocks his blow with his legs and jumps back to his feet. The light of the burning straw in the outside falls upon his face through the window and Wallace can see now that he’s _not_ Arthur, after all.

Neither does he appear particularly frightened by the danger in which he finds himself.

“Merlin!” he calls out. “Don’t you think this has gone on long enough?”

Wallace freezes for a moment because he knows all too well that the sorcerer is imprisoned in Castle Pendragon, together with Queen Igraine. That moment is enough for a previously unseen young man to step out of the shadows. He’s almost painfully thin, just skin and bones, his ears are sticking out in an elfin way from under the thick cap of his dark hair.

“If you have played enough,” he says breezily.

Then he raises his hand, his eyes turn molten gold and everything goes black for Wallace.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When he comes to, he’s tied to a chair. Lord Lucan, the guardian of Bardon Pass is in the chamber with him, and so are the two warriors in the strange mail shirts, as well as the young man they called Merlin.

It is he who notices that Wallace is awake and alerts the others.

“Good,” the blond warrior who challenged them on the wall says. “Now we can get some answers.”

He stands in front of Wallace, a dagger in his hand. “Who sent you?”

Wallace shrugs, as well as it is possible when tied to a chair, since the battle is clearly lost. He only hopes that Harwel manages to get the sword to Princess Morgan in time, so that she can be crowned before the boy King resurfaces.

“What does it matter?” he asks back, trying to win time for Harwel.

The blond warrior smiles menacingly and puts the danger to Wallace’s throat.

“Oh, but it matters,” he says softly. “Who do you fight for? Who sent you?”

“Oh, come on, Arthur, it’s not so as if we didn’t know already,” the young sorcerer says impatiently. “I’ve heard them discuss it myself.”

The blond warrior, who is decidedly _not_ Arthur, and Wallace can’t understand why they’d call him that, shakes his head.

“We need proof, _Mer_ lin,” he says in a sing-song voice. “And witnesses. No-one would accept your word for it. Less so as we’re misplaced here and nobody knows us,” he moves the dagger, so that its point nearly touches Wallace’s eyeball. “Who?” he repeats silkily.

And Wallace collapses. He might be devoted to Princess Morgan to an extent but not far enough to sacrifice an eye for her if he can avoid it.

“Morgan Pendragon,” he confesses.

The blond warrior doesn’t look particularly surprised, as if this had been the answer he expected.

“What were your orders?” he asks, and Wallace sees no reason why he shouldn’t tell everything. Less so as the sorcerer has obviously spied on them, unseen.

“Attack Bardon Pass,” he answers. “Draw out the King. Kill him when he shows up to defend it,” he pulls a face. “Those were Morgan’s orders. Those Pendragons are a fucked-up family all right.”

The boy King would probably hit him for that slander against his family. Or kill him, hot-headed little idiot as he is. The blond warrior, however, lets go of him with a mirthless grin.

“That we are indeed,” he agrees. “And in more than just one world, it seems.”

Then he turns to the lord of the house. “Lord Lucan, I believe we should take this… gentleman to Camelot, so that the people learn the truth about this attack against Bardon Pass.”

The guardian of the Pass nods. “You do so. Take the King’s warriors with you. I must remain here and keep guarding the Pass.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Griffith, in the meantime, has reached the camp and hands the King’s sword to Harwel.

“Where’s Wallace?” Harwel asks, frowning.

“Finishing off the King,” replies Griffith. “He told me to bring you the King’s sword. They have Arthur surrounded. He’s alone in there.”

Harwel shakes his head, not convinced.

“The banner still flies,” he murmurs, “and Wallace hasn’t returned. Arthur must still be alive; but we’ll change that, soon.”

He takes the sword, kisses it right under the hilt, then hands it back to Griffith.

“Take this straight to Morgan, with my compliments. Ride fast; I’ll follow you. After I’ve put a burning torch to the King’s body.”

Griffith nods and mounts his horse immediately. Harwel watches him ride off; then he turns around and heads for the house. It’s time to get rid of the bastard King and make room for the legitimate Queen.


	4. The Sorcerer's Ill Fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some creative freedom by describing the throne room of Camelot. The differences to the actual Chateau de Pierrefonds are fully intended.  
> And yes, I know that – technically – _Camelot's_ Merlin wasn’t in a prison cell but displayed on the courtyard of the ruined castle. Again, creative freedom. Do forgive me.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 04 – THE SORCERER’S ILL FORTUNE**

His last memory is having passed out in his prison cell in Camelot, after Bridget’s visit. Guinevere’s mild-mannered cousin told him that Morgan’s guards were all along the corridor and that she couldn’t go anywhere outside the fortress. Neither could she help him.

She asked why he wouldn’t break free. He tried to explain her that doing so he would never gain the trust of the people but he’s not sure she has understood. Poor girl, she has her heart on the right spot, but she’s not very bright,

Just like her cousin, Arthur’s little whore.

And _that_ is where it comes down to: they need Arthur here. Only that he can’t do a thing to get the boy King here right now. He’s bruised and battered still from the enforced walk from Castle Pendragon to Camelot… though he seems to be able to breathe more easily nonetheless.

It takes him a moment to realize why: he is no longer immobilized by that cursed pillory.

Nor is he in a prison cell any longer, if the cold breeze upon his face is any indication. But how is that possible? Has Bridget managed to smuggle him out of Camelot, after all?

That would be a slight possibility. She might have found helpers among the people living in Camelot who still keep faith to their King. Morgan can’t have turned _all_ of them around already.

But as he slowly, painfully pushes himself into a sitting position, he realizes that he’s not in Camelot anymore. Nor is he anywhere in the untamed woods surrounding the ruined castle. The floor under him is a dirt road, stamped hard and well-maintained (better, in fact, than any other road he’s seen anywhere in Britain), framed by small houses and cottages, built in one row, each turning its shop front to the street.

He can spot the shop of an herbalist, that of a tailor, of a basket weaver… he clearly is in the lower town of a grand place, and the many-turreted white castle towering above him is proof enough for that.

Apparently, it is early morning here – wherever _here_ is supposed to be – as there are no people on the street and the shop windows are still closed, too. Dawn is just beginning to break as at the other end of the street he finally glimpses a small group of four people, wearing mail shirts and carrying burning torches. Swords hang from their sword-belts, but they seem to find it more important to have the torches, which he finds odd. He scurries back into the shadows till his back touches the stone wall of one of the houses, unsure if the armed men would prove friendly or a threat.

They are approaching slowly, careful to form a circle, with the torches pointing outward. What on earth may they be afraid of, he wonders, that they appear to need fire for their protection?

“No sign of the Dorocha here,” says one of them in a language he recognizes as English, despite the rather strange dialect.

Where has he ended up and how did he get here anyway?

“And no dead bodies, either,” says another guardsman; for what else could they be? “In fact, there haven’t been any since midnight, and the Dorocha seem to be gone, too. Do you think Prince Arthur and the others have succeeded, Master Gregory?”

“I don’t know, Morris,” replies the first man, presumably the captain of the guard, though he appears to be younger than his fellow man-at-arms. “Let’s hope they have. I don’t know how much longer the people of Camelot could have endured this terror each night. Let’s search this street and the next one, and if we still don’t find anything, we can return to the Citadel, I think.”

They continue their search, so far not spotting a completely bewildered Merlin who can’t make heads or tails from their conversation. They spoke of _Prince Arthur_ ; yet Arthur has been King for almost a year by now.

And _this_ is supposed to be Camelot? Certainly not! Camelot may have its importance for a united Britain somewhere in the future, but right now it still is just a ruined castle at the sea, with his Great Hall lacking a roof and the vegetation all but having it taken over, after it was abandoned for hundreds of years.

And what the hell are those Dorocha? He never heard about them.

Merlin waits until the men are out of earshot before leaving his hiding place. He knows his best chance to reach the Citadel unnoticed is while the people of the lower town are still hiding in their houses in fear from their mysterious enemy. 

Under normal circumstances he’d prefer to merge with the common crowd, to listen to the gossip and learn whatever there is to know without the need of asking any questions. But these people are too different; their clothes are strange, their speech is odd. He’d be spotted as an outsider at once, and he’s got the uncomfortable feeling that outsiders are not very welcome here.

Wherever _here_ is.

He manages to reach the gates of the Citadel without meeting anyone. Once there, though, he runs into an unexpected problem: while the gates are open already, they are also guarded. And not just by some random men-at-arms like back home.

 _These_ guards are big, grim-faced and armed to the teeth, with swords and halberds. Their steel helmets and mail shirts are adorned with the image of a rearing dragon. A symbol Merlin knows all too well – it is similar to, albeit not identical with the heraldic device of Uther Pendragon.

Can it be that he’s ended up in Camelot, after all? Perhaps, by some foul sorcery of Morgan’s, he’s travelled forward in time, to an era when Britain has already been united under Arthur’s rule? Or backward, to the time of the Romans? 

The dark forces Morgan keeps dabbling in can cause strange and unexpected things.

In either case, he needs to enter the Citadel, and as he cannot slip in unnoticed – at lest not without the use of powerful sorcery, and he doesn’t dare to try _that_ , not knowing if it would work here at all – he decides for the direct approach. He walks up to the gate openly and asks for leave to enter… only to have the razor-sharp point of two halberds touch his chest warningly.

“Who are you?” one of the guards demands to know. “You are clearly not from here. What is your business in Camelot?”

That they’ve figured out that much already isn’t really surprising. His clothes are way too shabby for someone from this place; besides, the guards probably know most of the townspeople well.

“My name is Merlin,” he begins cautiously, for he cannot know if his reputation is known here and if yes, what kind of reputation it is. “I used to be the court sorcerer of the late King Uther Pendragon. Now I am the counsellor of his son, King Arthur.”

For some unfathomable reason, the guards seem to find his answer terribly amusing.

“The _late_ King Uther, eh?” comments the other one, grinning in a way that isn’t suited to reassure anybody. “We’ll see what he has to say about _that_.”

“And how he’ll find the idea of having a _court sorcerer_ ,” adds the first guard with a grim smile.

Merlin doesn’t understand why are they speaking of Uther as if he were still alive, but right now he has more pressing issues to deal with.

“Queen Igraine can testify my words,” he says, somewhat testily.

The amusement vanishes from the men’s face as if wiped off with a wet cloth.

“I don’t know who you really are or where you’ve come,” says the second one slowly. “But if you value your life, you don’t mention the Queen in the King’s presence. Nobody in their right mind does.”

That sounds definitely odd. Why do they speak of Uther Pendragon as if he were still alive? Merlin decides to thread very carefully, until he learns more about what’s going on here. If someone is pretending to be King Uther, he’ll also be able to reveal the impostor at once. Should he have been thrown back in time, however – well, in that case he’ll have to play his game by the ear.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The guards send an errand boy up to the Citadel for reinforcements and soon enough another two warriors arrive, wearing mail shirts, helmets and weapons of a similar fashion.

“Master Gregory ordered us to take him directly to the King,” explains one of them, and the guards seem to be mildly shocked.

“The King has come forth from his chambers?”

“Morris says he’s been anxious for news about his son,” explains the newcomer. “Lord Agravaine tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted upon getting dressed and coming to the throne room in person.”

“You shouldn’t waste any more time, then,” advises the guard. “King Uther is not known to suffer those who make him wait kindly. Least so when it could be about his son.”

This is clearly old news for the others, and so Merlin is led along a few narrow streets up to the many-towered white castle, the courtyard of which alone is larger than the Camelot he knows. They climb a wide stairway of white stone, flanked by life-sized images of fully armoured, mounted warriors, enter the castle proper and come into the throne room, in which the whole Castle Pendragon Merlin knows would find place. 

Paved with patterned marble and its high, arched ceiling covered with gold filigree, its sides seamed by tall, smooth pillars, the throne room appears to stretch into infinity – right to a dais, upon which two heavy, richly carved chairs stand under a double arch. High above the arch the life-sized statues of what have to be previous Kings of the realm stand solemn, silent watch.

In one of the chairs a tall, heavy-set man of middle age – supposedly King Uther – is sitting.

He is very different from the semi-barbaric warlord Merlin used to know under the same name. _This_ Uther Pendragon has clearly been born and bred to be King and rule competently – albeit with an iron glove – over his realm. His broad face is deeply lined, more due to recent suffering than due to his true age; his deep-set, pale eyes are sharp and inquisitive, and his heavy shoulders and strong arms reveal him as a skilled and experienced swordsman.

His clothes of soft leather and fine wool are beautifully made and richly embroidered; they speak of wealth and refinement. He is wearing an almost embarrassingly simple crown upon his high brow, barely more than a toothed golden circlet; a big sword in an elaborate sheath hangs from his hip… from his right hip, suggesting the fact that he is left-handed.

With his clean-shaven, simple face and short, thinning hair at first he appears like a benevolent uncle. But there is a cold, dangerous glint in his eyes that warns Merlin to consider him a deadly opponent.

“So, this is the man who pretends to be Merlin, of all people,” says the King in a soft, cultured voice that has a coldly amused undertone nevertheless. “The man who has the cheek to state that he was _my_ court sorcerer.”

His eyes are glittering in an odd manner that makes Merlin suspect that the man may be a little mad. Perhaps more than just a little.

Therefore the sorcerer decides to choose his words carefully.

“I used to be King Uther’s courts sorcerer, yes,” he replies. “And I watched over his son from afar while the boy was in foster care in Sir Ector’s house. I also saw to that Arthur got the support of his late father’s warriors after the King’s death.”

He keeps the facts of his more… _direct_ involvement to himself. No need for some suspicious strangers to know what a pivotal role he played – is still playing, in fact – in Uther’s bastard claiming the throne.

“Do I seem dead to you?” asks the presumably mad King with a thin, unpleasant smile.

Merlin withstands the urge to shrug. “No, of course not, my lord, but I was not speaking of _you_ …”

“You were speaking of King Uther,” interrupts the King. “ _I am_ Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot; and as you can see with your own eyes, I’m very much alive.”

“I can see that, my lord,” answers Merlin respectfully, fighting his own anger very hard. “However, I believe you are not the King Uther I used to know.”

“That would be highly unlikely,” agrees the King. “Otherwise you would not have been foolish enough to state that you were the court sorcerer. Camelot does not _have_ a court sorcerer. We do no _need_ one. In fact, the laws of Camelot expressly forbid the use of sorcery upon the pain of death. Whatever your scheme may be, you have chosen the wrong place to play it.”

“I do not have any scheme,” protests Merlin.

Which is the honest truth, even though it is a blatant lie at the same time. He has no scheme to play _here_ – wherever this place may be. Back home… well, that is a different game entirely.

“Why did you come here then?” asks an old man with shoulder-length white hair and a bent back, wearing a simple brown robe.

He is standing on the right side of the King’s chair, so he must be one of the trusted counsellors here.

“I did not,” says Merlin which, again, is the truth, hard to believe it might be. “I was imprisoned by Morgan Pendragon for supporting her brother’s claim against hers… and woke up just outside this town. I don’t even know where I truly am!”

The King looks at the old man on his right. “What do you think, Gaius?”

“I believe he is telling the truth, _sire_ ,” says the old man carefully. “Or what he _believes_ to be the truth in any case. He may have been magically transported here. We know that there are powers that can pass through the veil between worlds at will. The Sidhe, for one; there can be others, too.”

“Which means… what exactly?” asks another old man, this one bearded and more richly clad, with a frown.

“He may have come from a different Camelot; one where the King is dead and sorcery is accepted,” explains the elder called Gaius.

The other old man raises a surprised eyebrow. 

“That must have been some powerful magic then,” he comments, clearly concerned.

“Magic,” muses the King darkly. “It always comes back to the cursed magic. I know why I’ve outlawed it twenty years ago; I still stand to that decision,” he looks up and glares at Merlin, madness glittering in his eyes again. “Guards! Throw this man into the dungeons – deep down where once the Dragon was kept!”

“But _sire_ , he hasn’t done anything wrong!” the old man named Gaius reminds his King carefully.

“Not _yet_ ,” returns the King grimly. “But he’s admitted that he’s a sorcerer; and I want him safely put away till I decide what to do with him – have him beheaded or burned on the pyre.”

“What?” cries out Merlin, alarmed by the sudden violent turn of things. “You can’t just have me executed without a trial!”

“I can and I will,” replies the King. “There’s no need for a trial; you’ve openly admitted being a sorcerer and sorcerers get executed in Camelot. We’ll just wait for the return of my son to make a proper example.”

As wary as Merlin is displaying his powers, this time he has no other choice. The mad King would have him executed without having committed any crime (at least in _this_ Camelot), simply for what he is. Well, he’ll give the madman a taste of real sorcery if proof is what he wants!

Focusing on the dark powers he has internalised during his long an painful training, Merlin raises both hands to cast the powerful spell – when suddenly there is blinding pain in his head, as if his skull would be split open, and everything goes dark.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Morris, the trusted elderly manservant of King Uther, pulls a cloth from his pocket to rub the heavy silver tablet, with which he has just knocked the foreign sorcerer out cold, clean again.

“He may be a sorcerer,” he comments causally, “but he cannot be a very good one. Every hedge witch or wandering conjuror could have cast that spell before I would get to them… or spot me well in time.”

“It does not matter,” says the King grimly. “He _is_ a sorcerer, and he will die for it. Take him to the dungeon and chain him to the walls with the Dragon’s chain. It’s been enchanted to withstand any liberation spells. I’ll deal with him when Arthur is back.”

Gaius is careful _not_ to make any comment while the guards drag out the tattered sorcerer by his ankles. The fact that the Dorocha have vanished clearly proves that Prince Arthur – or rather Merlin, _their_ Merlin – has succeeded and the veil between the worlds has been sealed once again. So, in theory, they could expect Arthur and his handful of knights back, soon.

But Gaius also knows the price required either tearing open or sealing that veil, and his old heart is heavy with concern. Does the sudden appearance of a different Merlin from a different world mean that his great-nephew has passed through the veil and is with the dead now?

Or has he failed to hinder Prince Arthur in making the heroic sacrifice and is Uther bereft of his son, without knowing it?

“We are all looking forward to Prince Arthur’s return, _sire_ ,” he says neutrally. “I’ll inform Lord Agravaine of your orders and call Gwen to take you back to your chambers.”

“Nonsense,” declares the King, more alive and more himself than he’s ever been since freed from his own dungeons. “I’ve been hiding like a wounded bear long enough. It’s time for me to come forth and reclaim my duties.”

Gaius and Master Geoffrey de Monmouth exchange knowing looks. On the one hand, they are glad to see Uther returning to his old self. On the other hand, they both fear the moment they’ll have word of the fate and whereabouts of Prince Arthur’s party. Because even though they knew the guest has succeeded – that much is already given in evidence – they cannot be certain that Arthur himself has survived. 

Should the Crown Prince have died, there would be nothing left to keep Uther alive. And once Uther, too, is gone, surrendering himself to grief, Morgana will have free reign over the realm.

No-one in their right mind wants _that_. They’ve already suffered a short period of her so-called leadership and abhor a possible repetition. Thus Gaius fervently hopes that Arthur has, indeed, survived – even if that means Merlin, _his_ Merlin, who’s been for him like the son he never had, must have sacrificed himself to save their Prince.

Losing Merlin would break his heart; and Hunith’s. But losing Arthur would break _Camelot_ ; and weak and selfish old man though he may be, Gaius knows _that_ would be the greater tragedy.

He and his niece would survive Merlin’s loss, even if it would leave them empty and broken. Camelot, however, would _not_ survive the loss of its once and future King.

It is that simple.


	5. The King Is Dead, Long Live the Queen!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pay attention to the big, honking AU label on this product! Things will have a different turn from what they are in canon – either canon. However, some of the dialogue has been borrowed from the final episode of “Camelot”.
> 
> Also, I don’t really think that an abbess would have had the right to crown a King or a Queen like an archbishop. Not in the real medieval times. But “Camelot” had the nun crown Morgan (well, almost), so I had to come up with an excuse, even if it is a false one.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 05 – THE KING IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!**

Ever since their arrival to Camelot on the previous afternoon, Morgan Pendragon has waited anxiously for news from Bardon Pass. 

She’s come to her brother’s stronghold, demanding to see him, demanding food and shelter for the refugees following her, accusing Merlin and Igraine of ransacking Castle Pendragon and of threatening her life. So far, her plans have come to fruition. Even the rumour that Arthur has run off with the wife of his champion has spread like wildfire among his followers, undermining their loyalty. 

That foolish little whore, Guinevere, proved to be very helpful by riding out after them on her own volition. But Morgan cannot make her next move as long as Arthur is alive.

She looks around in Arthur’s chamber, which she has claimed upon their arrival. It is a fairly decent room for somebody housing in a ruin. It looks a great deal like their father’s bedchamber used to look in Castle Pendragon – doubtlessly Merlin’s doing. The sorcerer would pay attention to such small yet important detail – that the little bastard would occupy _the King’s chambers_. Such symbols can be more effective than a thousand words.

Morgan picks up the royal cloak, thrown carelessly across the back of a carved armchair, hugs it close and buries her face in the fur collar. To her regret, she can no longer find her father’s scent in it. It stinks of _Arthur_ now.

She drops the cloak again and strolls over to the heavy table, upon which the crown rests. It is a heavy, ugly piece: a wide circlet of grey, tarnished silver, seamed with leaves of the same material; clearly made for a man.

Made for her father. Usurped by her brother. It will be hers, soon.

She reaches out and _almost_ touches it when there is a sharp knock on the door.

“I said I didn't want to be disturbed!” she snaps, irritated.

The door opens and reveals Sybil, followed by a young warrior who’s obviously coming straight from battle.

“I think you'll want to see _this_ , child,” says the nun says and ushers the warrior forward. 

The young man comes closer and holds out a sword with both hands like some sort of offering.

“The King's sword,” he says. ”A gift from Harwel.”

Morgan takes the sword and holds out in both hands, in the same manner. She recognizes it at once, of course. It is the same sword the sorcerer has brought for Arthur from somewhere. A sword of whose origins he never revealed – presumably for a good reason.

“Is it done?” she asks tonelessly.

” It is,” answers the warrior simply.

Morgan closes her eyes as if in shock; even without seeing, she knows that Sybil is looking on them in unsmiling triumph.

“It's a tragedy,” she says, still playing the role of the loyal sister.

The young man stares at her in honest confusion. “It's what you _ordered_.”

“Leave her to grieve her brother!” interrupts the nun sharply, ushering him out of the door.

A single backwards glance assures Morgan that the man would be removed from Camelot before he could betray her. 

Permanently.

She waits till they are out of earshot, still holding the sword in both hands. Then she presses it to her face for a moment before raising it in a smooth attack move trained into her by her sword-master in the tender age of her youth.

“This is _our_ time,” she says in determination.

Her voice rings like the crossing of swords.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morning she prepares herself carefully for the most important performance of her life. Every little detail must sit now. Vivian helps her into a long robe that is as sombre as it is stunning: a robe of grey, self-patterned silk that glitters like the scales of a fish and the bodice front is richly embroidered with silver.

Morgan decides to wear her hair down, without any jewellery, to express the grief she doesn’t truly feel. Vivian brushes her hair until it is smooth and shining, and the glance into the mirror reassures her that she looks exactly as she must. The dark smudges under her eyes, carefully applied with the help of ash, underline the pretence of her grief, while they make her blue eyes look even larger and brighter than they already are. 

She looks breath-takingly beautiful. She has to. That is her main weapon in this fight.

The arrival of Sybil interrupts her contemplation. The nun looks concerned.

“Worrisome news my child,” she says, keeping her composure with all her considerable strength of will. “The sorcerer is gone.”

Morgan freezes. “How is that possible?”

“Sorcery, no doubt,” answers Sybil answers. “The pillory is still locked, and his chains are lying on the ground, untouched.”

"Has anyone spoken to him since our arrival?” demands Morgan.

“Guinevere’s dim-witted little cousin fed him,” the nun raises her bandaged hand to stop Morgan’s outburst. “They’ve been watched all the time. Besides, she’s not bright enough to break him out.”

Morgan knows that herself; but whoever has helped the sorcerer to escape – or if he’s escaped by his own means – she is _not_ about to back off. Not now when her goal is finally within reach.

“In that case,” she says calmly, evenly, “we’ll have to act fast, as long as we still can. Call the people to the Great Hall; for what’s coming I’ll need an audience. A big one.”

For a moment Sybil looks at her in unsmiling pride. Then she whirls around and hurries off.

A short time later Morgan is walking through the crowded Great Hall, dragging Arthur’s sword on the ground behind her. People bend their knee in respect as she passes by. If nothing else, she is the King’s sister – for now – and as such, she is owed that respect. 

Soon, she will have it – and more – on her own right.

Reaching the head end of the Hall, she turns around facing the crowd, and holds out to them the bloody sword with both hands.

“This is the King's sword,” she announces in a low, sorrowful voice. “Just brought to me with news of his death.”

She pauses, taking in the shocked murmurs of the crowd, the pale faces of Arthur’s lackeys – Bridget’s before anyone else – and adds in a convincingly broken manner,

“My heart breaks for my brother.”

“What now?” calls somebody from the crowd as the first shock has settled. “Who protects us? Who will take the crown?”

“I cannot decide that,” replies Morgan with downcast eyes. 

She wishes she had a mirror to watch her own performance. To make sure it is convincing.

“It should be you,” says Sybil softly in the ensuing silence, and multiple voices rose in agreement.

“Yes,” men and women murmur as if with one voice. 

They are shocked and confused by the loss of the boy King, they desperately need somebody – _anybody_ – to take over for him and tell them what to do.

Morgan pretends to be shaken and moved at the same time; though she is neither. This is what she’s been working at for the entire year.

“Your belief touches me, but I…” she begins humbly.

“There is no one else,” interrupts Sybil. “You owe it to your father and your brother not to leave these people unprotected.”

Again, there are murmurs of approval all around. Truly, people are so predictable! One who is smart and ruthless enough can play them like a harp.

“She's right,” a man calls out.

“Morgan, you have an obligation to everyone here, to everyone in the land,” continues Sybil in gentle persuasion. “Out of this darkness, the realm must know its first Queen.”

Voices of agreement rise again and Sybil presses on. “Answer us, please.”

Morgan looks around, almost pleadingly. “Is it truly your will? “

“Yes,” cries of approval arise, and she inclines her head in a perfectly executed gesture of pretended humility.

”Then I accept, in my brother's memory, to carry on the Pendragon line.”

The crowd cheers. Morgan and Sybil exchange faint smiles of triumph, although they know it is not over yet. It won’t be over until the crown rests safely upon her brow.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
For the rest of the day Camelot is bursting with preparations for the upcoming coronation of their new Queen. Morgan has made sure that the Lady Igraine is still in her chambers where she’s had her brought and ordered her to be prepared for the ceremony. Having her father’s concubine witness _her_ coronation would make her victory complete.

“I think I should pay her a visit,” she muses. “There are a few things I have to tell her; and they are better told in private.”

“Mater Sybil won’t approve,” murmurs Vivian with downcast eyes.

Morgan shrugs. “She’s my counsellor, not my mother. And soon enough, I’ll be _her_ Queen as well. She cannot dictate my actions.”

And with that, she leaves Arthur’s chambers, heading for Igraine’s. This particular chapter in the history of the Pendragon line needs to be closed. Permanently.

The dowager Queen rises from her bed upon Morgan’s arrival. She is wearing a bliaut of pale silk that is way too elaborate and precious for such primitive surroundings. Unfortunately, it is also quite unflattering making her look her age… and beyond. 

Morgan gives her a measuring look.

“Hmmm. I picked that out for you. You were looking a bit dishevelled,” she smiles coldly. “You must look your best on the coronation of the _rightful_ heir of the Pendragon line, after all.”

“You will _never_ be Queen!” replies Igraine. “You can give birth to a King, or you marry one, but you won't ever get that crown.”

Morgan chuckles in cold amusement. “Watch me! In fact, you will get the chance to do so.”

She knows that Britain never had a Queen before; but again, there was never a daughter from the royal line versed in the dark arts, and Igraine knows it, too.

“Why did you take _my_ face?” she asks suddenly, referring to their previous encounter.

Morgan takes a seat in a regal manner. “I asked myself that same question. It wasn't my choice, but now I understand why it happened. You're the birth of all this,” she adds darkly.

Igraine shakes her head in pity; it is infuriating. “You poor child. What happened to you these years?” 

Morgan rises from her seat. “What _happened_ is that you turned my father against me. Until _you_ came, he loved me without question. And then you and your bastard child had to ruin everything.”

Igraine shakes her head again. “You _never_ understood.”

“It doesn't matter now,” says Morgan with eerie calm; she’s come this far, she cannot turn away from her chosen path now. “You look beautiful, my lady,” she adds after a lengthy pause.

It won’t take long now.

”What do you want from me?” Igraine is now truly frightened; good. She should be.

Morgan leans so close that their cheeks nearly touch and whispers in her ear, “A slow death.”

She raises a hand and lightly scratches Igraine’s cheek with the steel thorn hidden under the stone of her ring. Igraine yelps in surprise at the slight, barely perceivable pain; a thin line of blood trickles down her lean face.

“Shh,” coos Morgan, almost as if soothing a frightened child. “It's all right. You see, the poison is fatal. But it will take some time for it to spread through your body. You’ll be able to witness my coronation; my final triumph. Don’t worry; you’ll feel no pain… well, not too much.” 

She reaches out to swipe the fine trickle of blood from her stepmother’s face with her thumb. “Shh, Queen Igraine. Look at you now – that face my father loved enough to banish me. We cannot have it all soiled, can we?”

”He didn't banish you!” Igraine sways ever so slightly as the poison begins to spread. “He was going to have you _killed_ like your mother. _I_ sent you away to keep you safe!” 

Rage floods Morgan’s mind like a red wave and she gives her stepmother a violent shove backwards. “You're lying! “

Igraine holds herself upwards by leaning against the wall. “I saved you!”

“I don't believe you,” Morgan turns away coldly.

“I took pity on you!” Anger flashes in Igraine’s eyes. “You will _never_ be Queen!”

She knows what will hurt her stepdaughter most and she wants to hurt her. 

For her son. 

For Merlin. 

For herself.

“Yes, I will,” replies Morgan replies. “And you’ll be there to bear witness and you won’t be able to do a thing to stop me.”

“I’ll tell everyone that you’ve poisoned me!” threatens Igraine.

“You can try; no-one will believe you,” answers Morgan in cold amusement. “You won’t be showing any sign of the poison until the day after tomorrow, or even later; and by then it will be already too late. By then, I’ll already be Queen and all will believe that you’ve died from grief over the loss of your son; and your lover.”

She whirls around and leaves, instructing two of her own maids to watch over the dowager Queen and escort her to the ceremony in due time. She wouldn’t trust Bridget – or any other woman from Camelot – _not_ to help Igraine to escape.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The disappearance of Merlin has made Morgan’s people speed up the preparations for her crowning in the unconscious worry that the sorcerer might reappear just as unexpectedly and prevent the ceremony from happening. The kitchen maids are working frantically to ready all the food in time, and the Great Hall is decorated in a way it hasn’t looked for hundreds of years.

Long trestle tables are brought into the Hall, for the feast afterwards, and two men carry in the ceremonial throne: an ornate chair carved of heavy oak, covered with gold-embroidered brocade and cushioned with folded throws of fur. The men place the throne, together with its dais, at the head end of the Hall. The high table, where the Queen’s most privileged guests are seated, will be set before the throne after the ceremony.

In Arthur’s chambers Morgan is being dressed for her great moment. First comes a shoulder-free, plain black undergown of heavy, figured silk. Then the overrobe, also black, richly embroidered with gold thread and adorned with paper-thin applications of large golden flowers. Her head is bare and her hair, once again, down, brushed to shiny perfection.

“Is this it?” she asks Sybil, who is standing at her side as always. “Have I done it?”

The nun touches her cheek with her bandaged hand – the one she had burned as atonement, to help Morgan save face – while holding the ugly crown in the other one. “Yes, my child.”

Morgan touches the bandaged hand in gentle apology. “This… this was everything.”

The nun nods in understanding. She’s the only one who’s _always_ understood.

“I know,” she says; they smile at each other. “Now take your throne, my Queen.”

Unbeknownst to them, a tight-lipped Igraine is escorted to the Great Hall by two of Morgan’s most faithful guards at this very moment.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Morgan enters the Great Hall, with the crowd murmuring in her wake. She knows she looks radiant and enjoys the admiring looks that are following her. She walks to the throne, takes it regally and sits under the Pendragon emblem – the black dragon on the round, blood-red shield – with her hands on the armrests. She has to curb the urge to grab those armrests with all her might, lest someone would try to take them from her.

Sybil comes around the throne, steps onto the dais behind her and holds the crown over her head.

“Will you swear to rule this realm according to the laws and customs of its people, and to administer justice with mercy?” she asks.

Crowning a King or a Queen is a ceremony that usually would be performed by the Archbishop; but as the abbess of an independent monastery, Sybil has the right to do the same. 

In theory. It has never happened in Britain’s history… until now. 

“I will,” replies Morgan in a steady voice, proud to come into her birthright on her own, in spite of a shady sorcerer’s manipulations.

“Will you uphold too the laws of God and the true teachings of His gospel?” continues Sybil.

Morgan suppresses a thin smile. The practices they have both used to ensure her ascend to the throne were not even marginally Christian; but admitting that would be unwise. Besides, she _can_ work around the laws of the Church, upholding them in front and do as she pleases in the background.

“I will,” she promises in a clear, ringing voice.

“With this crown, I anoint you, Morgan, First Queen of the Britons,” announces Sybil and lowers the crown onto Morgan’s head.

This is the moment towards which they have worked for the whole last year. The clumsy, ugly thing is heavy upon her brow, and she knows it will be a burden to bear for the rest of her life, but this is a price she’s more than willing to pay.

She is Queen of Britain now, and no-one can take that from her. Ever.

Before she can rise to speak to her people, though, a single person’s slow, demonstrative clapping can be heard, and the crowd parts to give way to a group of grim-looking men. She recognizes Lord Lucan, the guardian of Bardon Pass, accompanied by Sir Kay, Arthur’s foster brother, and the big, uncouth warrior named Gawain, who’s trained Arthur’s ragtag band of men to a unit of excellent warriors.

The other three, however, are unknown and strange-looking. 

The one still clapping with his gloved hands, obviously the leader of them, is a big, blond young man, clad in a mail shirt and wearing arm and shoulder plates of reinforced steel in addition. His long cloak is dark red, emblazoned with the image of a gold dragon. He is handsome in his boyish way, with the heavy shoulders and strong arms of an experienced swordsman. The long sword hanging from his hip emphasizes the impression.

The one on his left is similarly clad and armed, yet dark-haired and more slenderly built. His smooth, spare movements speak of an experienced fighter, too – and a good one at that.

The third one is thin like a twig, almost translucently pale, with his ears sticking out, elf-like, from his unruly mop of coal black hair. His thin face is all big, dark blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. He is the only one not wearing any weapons, just a tattered brown jacket and a ridiculous red neckerchief.

“Well played, milady,” says the big, blond warrior, still clapping. “I must congratulate you to the excellent scheme with which you managed to reclaim your birthright. But… don’t you think that arranging an attack at your own borders just to get rid of a usurper goes a little too far?”

Shocked murmurs arise among the crowd, but Morgan is not so easily intimidated. She’s dealt with more dangerous men than this stranger; with King Lot, for example, to name just one of them.

“Who are you to accuse me of such crimes against my own people?” she asks coolly. “I hope you have solid evidence to prove your bold accusations.”

“Unfortunately, your man Wallace did not survive the interrogation. But he _did_ confess before his death that you were the one who gave the orders to attack Bardon Pass,” blurts out Sir Kay angrily. “You wanted Arthur dead!”

“Arthur was a bastard and a usurper; and it was the sorcerer who led my father’s hand when he signed the writ that made Arthur his heir,” declares Morgan; then she turns to Queen Igraine. “Tell them! Tell them the truth!”

There is a long, bleak silence; then Igraine nods weakly.

“She is right. Uther was dying; he did not even know what… was happening to him when… Merlin took his hand, together with… the quill and… signed the writ for him,” she pauses, trying to overcome her weakness; then she looks at the stranger pleadingly. “Is…is my son truly dead?”

“I do not know,” admits the blond warrior. “I think not, though. We believe he is now in the place where we used to be before being taken by some unknown force.”

“What place?” demands Morgan. “And who _are_ you?”

“Camelot; a different Camelot than yours,” the blond warrior replies. “And I am Arthur Pendragon; though not the one you know.”

There is shocked silence in the Great Hall; then Lord Lucan cleans his throat.

“This is a strange tale indeed; I think we should sit in council and discuss in private what might have happened and what we should do.”

Before anyone can answer, however, Queen Igraine sways on her seat and falls to the ground, unconscious.


	6. Leontes in Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do forgive Leontes for his thoughts about Gwen. He’s still dealing with _his_ Guinevere’s betrayal and is having a hard time about it.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 06 – LEONTES IN WONDERLAND**

The Camelot they are taken to has nothing in common with the pathetic ruin, half-swallowed by vegetation, in which they are housing at home. _This_ Camelot is worthy of being the seat of a great King. It far outshines even Castle Pendragon, which counts as the finest keep back home. 

At least a dozen towers seam its high, cranellated walls that surround the spacious inner courtyard: high, round ones with thick walls, serving the defence of the Citadel, and more slender, quadratic or octagonal ones, belonging to the actual castle, which has a wide stairway of white stone leading up to its front gate, with larger-than-life statues of earlier Kings or heroes on either side.

And the Citadel is surrounded by the lower town, a place brimming with life, where, apparently, the common folk lives. It is the biggest place Leontes has ever seen, despite having travelled all over Britain on King Uther’s behalf.

As they ride through the gates of the Citadel, under the deadly spikes of the portcullis, a man clad in finely cut clothes in black and dark purple comes to greet them. He is of middle age, with a broad face, dark eyes and slicked-back, wavy dark hair, and clearly someone of importance, which his sombre yet rich garment unmistakably shows.

The finely made sword on his hip seems as if it were worth more than all Leontes’s belongings counted together.

“Sir Leon,” he greets the lead warrior with a placid smile. “I presume your quest has been successful? The Dorocha have vanished and peace has returned to the kingdom.”

Sir Leon sighs. “That is true, Lord Agravaine, yet the price was a high one. We have lost our prince, Sir Lancelot and Merlin… or, at least, seem to have exchanged for _them_ ,” he gestures with his gloved hand at Arthur and Leontes.

“Interesting,” Lord Agravaine, clearly one of the court nobles, says calmly. “And this snot-nosed kid presumably pretends to be my nephew, doesn’t he?”

The man is Arthur’s _uncle_? Leontes is baffled; he never knew either King Uther or Queen Igraine to have had any siblings. Perhaps here _that_ is different, too.

Sir Leon is just as baffled as Leontes. “He does; but how can you know that, my lord?”

Lord Agravaine shrugs his heavy shoulders that reveal him as an experienced swordsman.

“A man was found, just outside town, insisting that he was _Merlin_ – though he’s old enough to be the father of Arthur’s servant boy. He was stupid enough to use sorcery to escape when brought before the King, but if he _is_ a sorcerer, he cannot be a very good one. Morris hit him over the head with a heavy tray before he could have finished casting his spell.”

The returning warriors giggle, imagining _that_ , despite their grief, and Lord Agravaine continues.

“In any case, he’s waiting for his trial and execution in the dungeons,” he turns to the nearby guards. “Throw in the little impostor, too, but far enough so that they won’t be able to see each other… _or_ to speak with one another. I’m sure the King would _love_ to speak with him later.”

The guards drag a cursing, kicking Arthur away. Leontes is tempted to intervene, but the warning prank of Sir Percival on his forearm holds him back. As soon as Arthur is dealt with, Lord Agravaine turns to Leontes.

“And who are _you_ supposed to be if I may ask?”

“My name is Leontes,” he says simply. “I was King Uther’s champion and am now one of his son’s supporters.”

He wonders how many time he’ll have to tell this yet, and if anyone will ever believe him. Which doesn’t seem likely – not that he would blame anyone for it. He can hardly believe the whole thing himself.

“We think that some sort of exchange took place when the Veil between worlds was closed,” adds Sir Leon hurriedly. “Prince Arthur, Sir Lancelot and Merlin were gone, and we got these two instead. And an older Merlin, who’s a sorcerer, it seems. We hope that perhaps Gaius or Master Geoffrey can shed some light upon the events.”

Lord Agravaine nods thoughtfully.

“Very well. We’ll see into the issue as soon as you’ve rested a little. For Lord Leontes, as he’s not impersonating anyone we know, I’ll arrange guest quarters in the Citadel.”

“Just Leontes, please,” he says, but Lord Agravaine shakes his head.

“You are clearly a knight and a nobleman, sir; and here in Camelot we pride ourselves of addressing everyone according to his proper rank and status.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They are taken before the presence of the King and Leontes cannot help being impressed. He used to be the most faithful vassal of _his_ Uther Pendragon, but as he’s looking at his late lord’s counterpart, he has to admit that _this_ is a King – and then some.

He bends his knee almost on instinct, so strong is this King’s commanding presence.

“My lord,” he murmurs respectfully, and the King nods in appreciation.

“At least this one has manners,” he says to Lord Agravaine, who is watching them from his place on the left side of the high chair. Then he turns back to Leontes. “So, Lord Leontes, I understand that you used to have a similar position to our Sir Leon, who is First Knight in our court, where you come from.”

“Yes, my lord,” answers Leontes . “I was King Uther’s champion… that of _my_ King Uther, that is… and after his death that of his son, Arthur, since it was my King’s will that not his daughter should rule after him but his previously unknown son. Even though she was the eldest and he born out of wedlock.”

A shadow of intense pain flickers through the King’s face for a moment, as if he would relive bad memories. Then he collects himself again and continues his questioning.

“How did you know that your King wanted his bastard son instead of his legitimate daughter? Did he speak to you about it?”

“No, my lord. The sorcerer Merlin showed us the writ with the King’s signature under it. I am lettered and I knew my King’s hand; it _was_ his signature.”

“By Merlin you mean the unwashed sorcerer I have in my dungeons, I presume,” says the King, and Leontes nods, albeit a little uncertainly.

“There is only one Merlin that I know, my lord, and your description fits that one; though sometimes I wish I wouldn’t know him. He pretends to be on our side, yet he has his own agenda; and no-one can tell what that is.”

“That’s the result of dealing with sorcerers,” says the King darkly. “You have made a great mistake by _not_ banning sorcery in your realm.”

Leontes shrugs. “It was not mine to decide; and I presume he did have his uses for my King once.”

“They all seem to have their uses… at first,” says the King, some deep, very old hatred burning in his eyes. “But the price for their uses is high… too high. And they all have a hidden agenda, none of which is good.”

“Sorcery is outlawed in Camelot,” adds Lord Agravaine. “Has been for the last twenty-some years, in fact.”

Leontes nods again. “Sir Leon has told me; and I can’t say that I disagree,” he adds, remembering the harm both Merlin and Morgan’s dabbling in the black arts has caused in less than a year.

The King, too, nods in satisfaction.

“You are a wise man, Lord Leontes. Should you be unable to return home, you shall be always welcome in my court. Now, do tell me: is the obnoxious youth you were found with truly your King?”

“God help us, but he is!” Leontes sighs wearily.

The King leans forward in his chair. “This is a tale I want to hear, I need to know where my son has ended up and what can he expect. Tell me everything!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And so Leontes spends the rest of the day in King Uther’s presence, telling him in great detail what has happened in _his_ Britain since _their_ Uther’s death: the war with King Lot, the scheming of Princess Morgan, his own marriage, the snot-nosed boy King seducing his bride in the very morning of his wedding and the events that led to the struggle at Bardon Pass.

“And then we found us on that enchanted isle without forewarning, staring right at the swords of Sir Leon and his men pressed against our throats,” he finishes.

The King shakes his head in exasperation.

“I shall never say a word against Arthur and his choice in women again,” he swears. “If only I can get him back somehow. So you believe an exchange has taken place?”

“That is what your warriors seem to believe, my lord, and it does make sense,” replies Leontes slowly. “Arthur, Merlin and I have ended up here; and your people are missing _their_ Arthur, _their_ Merlin and someone called Sir Lancelot, It would be too much of a coincidence otherwise.”

The King nods absently. “I’ll consult Gaius and Master Geoffrey about the possibility of reversing the exchange,” he announces. “Lord Agravaine, see that proper chambers are arranged for Lord Leontes.”

Lord Agravaine bows. “It’s already been taken care of, sire. What about the youth and the sorcerer, though?”

“Leave them in the dungeons,” orders the King. “The boy deserves a lesson; we’ll let him out when he’s learned manners and a little humility.”

“And the sorcerer?” asks Lord Agravaine.

“Him, we’ll execute,” replies the King coldly. “The law is the law; even for visiting strangers. He tried to cast a spell in the throne room, before the eyes of all. We won’t need a trial; we have the evidence. I just need to decide about the means of the execution.”

Leontes won’t exactly grieve for the sorcerer, but such merciless pursuit of everything magical makes him uncomfortable.

“He couldn’t have known sorcery was outlawed here,” he tries.

“He did try to attack the King with a spell, though,” says Lord Agravaine. “Leave the sorcerer to us, Lord Leontes; he is no longer your responsibility. Come now; I’m told your chambers are ready. A bath, some food and a good night’s rest will do you a wealth of good.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Leontes is shown to guest chambers that are more luxurious than those of the late King Uther by a woman who appears to be a chambermaid. At least she wears the usual kirtle and undergown he saw the passing serving wenches wear… although made of much finer cloth, and the undergown must be very tightly laced, as it nearly pushes her breasts out of her generous cleavage.

Other than that, she’s rather on the short side, dark-skinned and fairly unremarkable. Small wonder that she feels the need to push her only assets into the eye… quite literally, in fact. Her best features are a the thick mane of dark, wavy hear, which she wears unbraided, and the large, doe-like brown eyes.

She leads Leontes around in the guest chambers, shows him where the privy is and explains him how to ask for a bath, should he want one. Then, instead of leaving him alone, she looks up him through her lowered eyelashes beseechingly.

“Forgive my impudence, my lord, but can you tell me what happened to Prince Arthur?” she asks.

“ _King_ Arthur has been thrown into the dungeons because people here think him an impostor,” replies Leontes coldly, giving the royal title particular emphasis.

He may have his issues with the boy King, but he’s also sworn fealty to him, and that means he has to protect Arthur, no matter what. Especially in this strange environment where the kid has no-one else to count on.

The thought that these people managed to knock _Merlin_ out cold, in the middle of casting a spell, is not entirely comforting.

The maidservant shrugs. “Well, he is not _our_ Arthur, that is for sure. I’d like to know where our Prince has gone… we all would.”

“If there was an exchange indeed, then he’s probably fighting for his life at Bardon Pass, together with the two who’ve vanished with him,” says Leontes dryly. “That is what we were doing before ending up here… wherever _here_ is. But what concern is it for you? Who _are_ you anyway?”

“I used to be Lady Morgana’s maidservant,” she explains. “My name is Guinevere, but people usually call me Gwen… save for Arthur, that is. I’m also the older sister of Sir Elyan.”

“ _Guinevere_?” he repeats, flabbergasted.

He didn’t expect to find the counterpart of his wife here; not that they’d have much in common, save their unhealthy interest for their respective Arthurs. _His_ Guinevere is a stunning beauty, a golden goddess, a lady nobly born. This one is a lowly servant, and not even a particularly pretty one, despite her pitiful attempts to look seductive.

What this world’s Arthur might see in her is beyond Leontes’s understanding.

“Yes,” she answers, a little warily. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” he replies, regaining his composure. “You just happen to share a name with my wife, is all. With my _unfaithful_ wife.”

That, for some reason, seems to make her uncomfortable, and she hurriedly excuses herself. Leontes is glad to see her gone; she has awakened memories he would rather forget.


	7. Reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shortness of this chapter. It seemed a good place to stop.

**CHAPTER 07 – RECONCILIATION**

The servants take Queen Igraine to her chambers in a great hurry and lay her on the bed. As this world’s Camelot doesn’t have a physician, Arthur volunteers Merlin’s services as a healer. 

Watching from the background, Morgan is slowly becoming anxious when the dark-haired boy with the elfin ears – who is called _Merlin_ , of all possible names! – slowly lets his bony hands glide and inch or so above Igraine’s body, his blue eyes turning molten gold as he whispers something barely audible under his breath. She recognizes a spell when she hears one, and she fears the boy sorcerer might discover the poison.

As it turns out, her worries are not ungrounded.

“She’s been poisoned,” announces the boy Merlin finally. “And it’s not just any poison; it has been magically enhanced. I can feel it spread through her body; it has been designed to kill her _slowly_.”

“Can you stop it?” asks the blond warrior who calls himself Arthur Pendragon.

The young sorcerer shrugs. “I can stop the _spreading_ of the poison. I cannot undo the damage it has already done, though. I’m afraid her health will never be the same again.”

“Then do it!” orders the blond warrior. “She’s better off sickening than dead.”

The boy named Merlin spreads his long, pale hands over Igraine’s body again. Once more, his eyes turn gold, and he whispers a few powerful words. Igraine’s skin takes on a sickly greenish hue, showing clearly how far the poison has already spread; then she begins to sweat it out in the form of a smelly green goo.

“Bring us water!” orders Bridget.

To everyone’s surprise, it is Morgan’s quiet, dark-skinned attendant, Vivian, who moves first, bringing a bowl of warm water and a rag, washing away the poison from Igraine’s skin gently.

“Take care that none of it gets into your eyes or mouth, or anywhere you might have a cut, no matter how small it is,” warns her Merlin, his eyes still glowing. “This seems to be a poison that spreads by the way of body fluids; blood, before all else.”

Vivian nods wordlessly and leaves with her head bowed, avoiding everyone’s looks. Merlin releases a long, shuddering breath. He looks tired, as if the fighting of the poison had cost him a great deal of strength.

“I’m glad it worked,” he says in obvious relief. “I am passable as a healer’s apprentice, but lousy at healing magic.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t agree with _that_ ,” protests Sir Kay. “I’d be dead without you! You are a great sorcerer, greater than any I’ve seen before.”

“The only one you’ve seen before is _our_ Merlin,” comments Ulfius dryly. “And _he_ would have left you behind, dying. I say we’re better off with this one as sorcerers go.”

“I’m not a sorcerer,” corrects young Merlin tiredly. “I’m a _warlock_.”

Ulfius shrugs. “So, what’s the difference?”

“I was _born_ with magic,” explains Merlin with the forced patience of someone who’s had to do this uncounted times. “I never needed to _learn_ it.”

For a moment Morgan feels intense envy towards the skinny boy, remembering all the pain and strength and effort she had to bring up to learn her arts. She knows that _their_ Merlin has gained his powers the same way; for the price of blood and sweat. That fact alone shows how different, how… _alien_ these three are. She’s never heard of anyone born with natural magic… _if_ there is such a thing in the first place.

“But she will live, won’t she?” asks Sir Kay, gesturing towards Queen Igraine.

Young Merlin nods. “She will. But she’ll be ailing through the rest of her life; weakened and prone to illness. I am sorry.”

“But how did the poison get into her blood?” demands Sir Kay.

“Somebody must have poisoned her,” says Gawain darkly.

Sir Kay shoots him an exasperated look. “I know _that_. I’d like to know _who_ did it – and _how_.”

“The smallest cut would have been enough,” says Merlin. “She _does_ have a small cut on her cheek; barely more than a scratch.”

“Then she must know who did it,” Sir Kay leans over the weakened Igraine. “Milady, do you know who poisoned you?”

Igraine is deathly pale, her cheeks are sunken, her eyes enormous, her whisper barely audible. “I do. But I… won’t tell you.”

“Why not?” several people demand at once angrily.

“Because… this kin-strife must… come to an end,” whispers Igraine. “Somebody… has to make the… first step to… end it. _I can be_ … that person.”

For the first time in a very long while Morgan is well and truly shocked… and angry. With this unexpected gesture of forgiveness, Igraine has spoiled her triumph thoroughly.

The others seem to feel a lot less forgiving, though.

“It is not that simple,” protests Lord Lucan, in the absence of Leontes now the most influential vassal of the Pendragons. “There is a poison-maker at the court, and we need to know who it is before they can target others, too.”

“Whom… should they… target?” Igraine whispers. “Arthur is gone; so is Merlin… and Leontes. I am… the only one… left.”

“I still want to know who administered that poison,” insists Lord Lucan, and many who still keep faith to Arthur murmur in agreement. 

It will only take a moment now before someone would raise open accusations against Morgan, because who else would want to remove Igraine from the game?

“I did,” a quiet, even voice says from the background, and Sybil comes forth, eerily calm and collected, looking like a ghost in her black cowl and white wimple. “I was the one who gave the orders to attack Bardon Pass, too. I sent those orders in Morgan’s name, for I knew the men would obey; yet Morgan knew nothing about it. It was _my_ plan all along, and I saw to its coming to fruition.”

“Not that it would surprise me,” mutters Sir Kay angrily. “We’ve long suspected your guiding hand behind much of what she was doing. I would still like to ask – why?”

“Because Morgan has been like a daughter to me ever since she was sent to our convent, and I wanted her to get that which was rightfully hers,” answers the nun coldly. “Hers was the legitimate claim; yet the laws of this land are made by feeble men who wish to set a son before a daughter, even if he is a bastard and not fit to rule.”

“So you took the law into your own hand,” says the foreign Arthur; it isn’t a question. He then looks at Lord Lucan askance. “Can she do it? Does she have the authority to legally crown a Queen?”

“She does, if she was an abbess,” replies the guardian of Bardon Pass.

“I was,” says Sybil simply. “It is done now, and it cannot be undone; not even if the boy King returns. Queen Morgan is the eldest, the one rightfully born in the royal bed. Do with me what you want; I don’t care. I’ve fulfilled my destiny.”

“I’d be carefully when it comes to destiny,” mutters young Merlin darkly but no-one pays him any attention. 

A shame, really. Morgan has the feeling that he could tell a great deal about the topic. Perhaps later, should they all survive this encounter, they will get the chance to discuss it. Now, however, she’ll need to have her wits about her to save her newly won throne.

“The punishment for treason is death!” growls Gawain. _How predictable._

Morgan has had enough. She’s _not_ willing to sacrifice Sybil, just to placate Arthur’s lapdogs. Not even though she knows the nun would make that sacrifice willingly.

“Back off!” she snarls at the big warrior. “ _I am_ the Queen here, and she has never betrayed _me_. She may have made mistakes out of poor judgement, yes, but she never turned against me,” she looks straight at Sybil, begging her to understand. “I fear I cannot allow you to remain at court, though, Mater. I shall have your convent rebuilt, however, so that you can return to your former life in the service of God.”

The nun bows respectfully. “My Queen is merciful.”

“What?” cries out Sir Kay in disdain. “You’d allow her to leave unpunished?”

Morgan gets right into his face. “She’ll never see me again. Don’t you think that’s punishment enough?”

For them both, in fact, though she knows better than say it loud.

“No-one will accept _you_ as our Queen!” spits Sir Kay. “We’ll have Queen Igraine rule us all before we’d let you take Camelot from us!

“I do not intend to rule from this half-rotten ruin,” returns Morgan. “I’ll rule from my father’s castle, as _he_ did.”

“And I won’t rule anyone… from anywhere,” now that the poison has left her body, some of Igraine’s strength seems to return. “Nor… do I wish to… live at court as… as the new Queen’s puppet.”

“What do you want to do with the rest of your life, then?” asks Bridget with innocent bluntness.

Igraine gives her a tolerant smile.

“I’ve buried… two husbands. That is… quite enough for one life. I choose to… to take the veil, once that… convent is rebuilt,” she looks at Sybil in faint amusement. “That way… we can keep a wary eye… on each other.”

Sybil inclines her head in acceptance, and while Arthur’s supporters are clearly not happy with the solution, Morgan knows she has no choice but to agree if she wants to keep her newly gained position. She’ll miss Sybil’s wisdom and ruthless power, certainly. But she is old enough and strong enough to continue on her own; and who knows, perhaps the three strangers can become useful allies, given enough time.

She hopes so. To have somebody like young Merlin to support her would be the best thing that could happen... if she plays her cards right.

“Very well,” she declares in a truly regal manner. “We’ll leave in a week’s time; now that the attacks have stopped, everyone can safely return home.”

“I’ll _not_ go with you!” growls Gawain, and Brastias nods in agreement.

Morgan shrugs. “Then stay here and fight with the beasts of the forest for these ruins. I care not. Everyone else is welcome to return to Castle Pendragon and reclaim the positions they’ve abandoned when they chose my brother over me.”

That declaration is met with tentative relief, and when, shortly thereafter, the festive dinner is distributed among the tables, friend and foe find themselves in more or less peaceful celebration that lasts well into the night.


	8. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hesitated for quite some time before I decided that I’d have Guinevere bathe in a lake. I know that the ruined Camelot is supposed to stand “at the sea”, but the grassy shores we saw would more belong to a lake. I might be wrong, and in that case I’ll simply point at the big, honking AU label. ;)

**CHAPTER 08 – STRANGE BEDFELLOWS**

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Lord Agravaine duBois has always been a man of patiently laid plans. He’s built up his campaign of finally getting rid of both Uther and his heir meticulously, and it seemed that his plans would finally come to fruition – until these three changelings, or whatever they are, showed up and ruined everything.

Uther is revitalized by having caught a sorcerer on his doorstep and is preparing himself eagerly for the trial and the inevitably following execution. Agravaine doesn’t _want_ him revitalized. He wants him broken, so that when the tidings of Arthur’s death reach Camelot he would give up fighting for his life.

Besides, Lord Agravaine has his own plans for the changelings.

Oh, not for he snot-nosed boy with the delusion of being a King. He’s clearly but a puppet – and a fairly stupid one at that. Agravaine’s own nephew may have his faults (his foolish infatuation with a lowly serving wench being one of them), but at least he’s a knight of his own right and would one day be a great King… if he weren’t in the way of the way of Morgana, that is. _This_ brat, however, would never be able to lord it over anything but a bunch of _very_ willing wenches.

No, Agravaine is interested in the puppet master, which is clearly the sorcerer who calls himself Merlin. He briefly wonders if, with all the similarities, his nephew’s idiot manservant might be a sorcerer, too. It sounds ridiculous, but it would actually explain Arthur’s unfathomable luck of surviving every death trap he’s been lured into during the last three years.

After a moment of consideration, though, he shakes his head. As amusing as the thought may be, it is entirely unlikely. More plausible is that the fools’ own luck that protects the boy has somehow rubbed off to Merlin. 

Besides, as the Regent, Lord Agravaine has more pressing issues to deal with than forming foolish theories about Arthur’s bumbling idiot of a servant, of all people.

He heads down to the dungeons, passes the cell in which the self-proclaimed boy King is still raving without wasting as much as a glance in his direction, and goes down to the deepest, most secure levels where they are keeping the sorcerer.

At first sight the man doesn’t look very impressive. Granted, the fact that he’s been chained to the stone walls might have something to do with _that_. Uther had the same chain used on him that had once kept the Great Dragon imprisoned, so a simple spell won’t be able to break it. Fortunately, Agravaine has pledged himself to somebody whose powers go way beyond simple spells. Morgana will break the chains by sheer willpower – _if_ the sorcerer is willing to cooperate.

Agravaine is not sure he wants this smug and shady man anywhere near Morgana. She may be a high priestess of the Old Religion and the most powerful witch in the Five Kingdoms, but deep in her heart she is still a lonely and vulnerable little girl. Despite the havoc she’s wrought upon Camelot, she’s still kept something of her innocence, something of her purity.

The first impression Agravaine gets from the imprisoned sorcerer is that of dirt.

But Morgana is alone, and a sorcerer who could do the small, dirty work for her would come in handy, so Agravaine overcomes his own disgust and walks up to the grid that is the cell door. The sorcerer glares at him balefully, but other than that, he seems unharmed. There has been no questioning yet… if there will ever be any. Uther may just decide to send the man to his death without much ado.

“Well,” says Agravaine languidly, “I thought you’d have freed yourself by now; the court sorcerer of a King as you supposedly are. Of course, a chain that not even a dragon could break may be too much for a cheap conjuror like yourself.”

The sorcerer glares at him with tightly controlled rage.

“These powers are not to be used lightly,” he answers hoarsely. “There is always a price; and one needs time to recover.”

“How odd,” says Agravaine. “The ones I’ve met so far did it quite naturally and didn’t seem one bit exhausted afterwards. In fact, I know someone who could bring down a fortress by sheer willpower.”

“I thought sorcery was outlawed here,” the man – Agravaine still can’t quite think of him as _Merlin_ – says darkly.

“It is,” the lord agrees. “It wasn’t always, though. And perhaps won’t always stay that way. Which won’t help you much, of course, seeing as you’ll most likely be executed tomorrow at first light of the morning.”

“Without a trial?” asks the sorcerer.

Agravaine shrugs. “King Uther is rather… particular when it comes to sorcery. As meticulous as he is about any other crime, he tends to deal with sorcerers quickly… and without mercy.”

“Why?” the sorcerer asks.

Agravaine shrugs again. “He has his reasons; none of which is your business. Tell me: is it true that you’ve falsified proof to help your King’s bastard onto the throne against the rightful heiress?”

The sorcerer stares at him in wary surprise. “How could you possibly know _that_?”

Agravaine shakes his head. “I have my ways to learn things; none of which is your business, either. Is it true or not?”

“What if it is?” challenges the sorcerer.

“Then your questionable loyalties may prove useful for someone who’s trying to do the same thing… only the other way round,” says Agravaine. “Unless, of course, your insist on remaining in your hospitable cell and wait for your execution.”

 _That_ catches the man’s interest. “You can set me free?”

Agravaine shakes his head again. “Me? Of course not. That would be treason. But there _is_ somebody who can.”

“Who?” asks the sorcerer eagerly, but Agravaine just smiles.

“You don’t think I’ll just tell you, do you? Besides, their help would come with a price.”

“What price?”

“I don’t know. They’ll tell you in time. But really, what have you got to lose? Save for your life in a few days, that is?”

The sorcerer remains quiet for a moment – then he sighs and gives in, just as Agravaine knew he would.

“Very well. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing yet,” says Agravaine. “I must contact the one with the power to free you. You’ll follow them once you’ve escaped and carry out their orders to the letter. That is you only chance to survive.”

The sorcerer clearly knows that because he nods glumly.

“What about Arthur?” he then asks.

“You mean the brat in the other cell?” clarifies Agravaine. “He shan’t be going with you. He is in no immediate danger; and I need a pawn that ensures that you’ll keep up your side of the agreement. Besides, a few days in the dungeon won’t do him any harm. He may even learn to behave like an adult.”

It is obvious that the sorcerer doesn’t like to be separated from the brat (who is his creature, after all), but Agravaine doesn’t really care. If the boy King is truly a Pendragon, even if from another world, he might prove useful for Morgana in the future – either as a pawn or as a consort. 

For that, however, the young Queen will have to re-claim her throne first; and _that_ she cannot do as long as Uther Pendragon lives.

Plotting other carefully laid plans in his head already, Agravaine heads to the stables. Morgana must learn about the recent events, and that is a task he cannot entrust to anyone else.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At the same time the revitalized Uther Pendragon is sitting council with the only people of the realm he still trusts… as far as he’s capable of trusting, which is not too far, to tell the truth. The circle of those people is, sadly, very small, consisting only of Sir Leon, Gaius and Geoffrey de Monmouth.

“It appears that an exchange has indeed taken place,” the King summarizes the recent events, “caused by Morgause’s foul sorcery that tore open the Veil between our world and the Otherworld. Now, is there any chance to reopen that tear and bring my son back?”

He doesn’t seem to remember that two other people got lost with the Prince, one of them a knight of Camelot and the other one Gaius’s grand-nephew. For him, only Arthur exists, and the need to get him back.

The two scholarly old men exchange helpless looks, and it is Master Geoffrey who finally answers.

“We do not know, sire. This level of sorcery is beyond everything we’ve ever heard of, even in the days when magic was tolerated in Camelot.”

“You have a whole library at your disposal,” snaps the King. “Search your books and find some answers for me!

“It is not that simple, sire,” says Gaius with a heavy sigh. “The only books that _might_ offer us some answers are the _Forbidden Tomes_ … the using of which is, well… _forbidden_ , by your own decree.”

“There’s an exception from every rule, if the need is great enough,” replies the King grimly. “I shall allow you access to the secret vaults where the _Forbidden Tomes_ are kept. Search them. Find a way to bring my son back.”

“But sire, even if we do find a way, that likely would require the using of magic,” Master Geoffrey warns him.

The King nods. “I know. If that is the only way, I shall allow it… this one time.”

“And who is supposed to do the deed?” asks Master Geoffrey. “Even if we knew where the Druids are hiding, they would hardly trust us enough to take such enormous risk.”

“We shan’t need the Druids,” says the King. “There was a time when Gaius, too, dabbled in magic; and though he has long turned his back on such practices, I am quite certain that he would try to get his pupil back. _And_ his Prince.”

His eyes are cold and hard like grey pebbles, and Gaius bows deeply, knowing well that he has no choice in the matter.

“Of course, sire. _If_ we find a way, I shall try my best to undo this accident.”

He would do _anything_ to bring Merlin back. Returning Arthur to his father would only be an additional bonus. He likes the young Prince, he always has, but Merlin is _family_ , and losing him would break Hunith’s heart beyond healing. So yes, he’ll use magic if he has to; he’d do so even without Uther’s permission.

 _If_ they find a way to do it. _If_ his modest skills will prove enough.

“Shouldn’t we question the sorcerer in the dungeon, seeing if he knows anything that might hep us?” asks Sir Leon.

The King shakes his head. “He wouldn’t tell us anything; and even if he did, we couldn’t believe him. No; he shall burn, as every sorcerer foolish enough to try harming the King with magic ought to.”

The three men nod in resignation. Neither of them is truly surprised by the King’s decision.

“What about the brat who calls himself Arthur?” Sir Leon then asks.

The King shrugs. “I don’t think he would present any danger for us. Let him rot in the dungeon for another day; then we’ll get him out and find him something useful to do.”

“He’s a good swordsman, according to Lord Leontes,” says Sir Leon. “And apparently a passable archer, too. We should make him train with the Knights of Camelot; if he’s any good, we can accept him among us. We’ve lost too many good men lately; and he _is_ a Pendragon, even if from a different line.”

“If we are keeping him, he needs to be better educated, though; he seems fairly rustic to me,” the King looks at Master Geoffrey. “I’ll leave _that_ in your capable hands.”

He doesn’t add that if they fail to bring _their_ Arthur back, the brat will be their only means to keep Morgana from acquiring the throne of Camelot again. He doesn’t need to. They are all painfully aware of the fact.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morning Lancelot emerges from his bedroll fairly late and with a sizeable hangover from the previous evening’s feast. He’s not such a steadfast drinker as Gwaine, and the wine they serve in _this_ Camelot isn’t exactly the best quality. So yes, his head is full of humming bees when he gets up and walks down the well-trodden path to the lakeshore, in the hope to clear it before Arthur would need his services. Perhaps a quick bath wouldn’t be amiss, although he suspects that the water would still be fairly cold.

The shore is empty when he arrives, and he’s about to take off his clothes when he spots something in the water, wading slowly towards him. At first he believes it to be some water fowl, but when the slim shape gets closer he recognizes it as that of a person. His curiosity caught, he waits for their further approach.

A short time later a young woman emerges from the lake, wearing only an undershift of thin silk that lies on her like a second skin, hiding nothing of her flawless beauty. Her skin is like mother-of-pearl, her long, luxurious blonde hair hangs down to her knees like a wet curtain. 

She wades to the lakeshore and wrings her hair as she would wring a piece of cloth. In the wet shift she looks more naked than she would were she entirely without clothes, and Lancelot feels desire pooling hotly in his belly. He never thought he’d ever want anyone else than Gwen, but right now he wants this girl… woman… so much that it hurts.

And for the first time since he’s known Gwen, he finds somebody so much more beautiful that it feels like betrayal.

The girl finally spots him, but she doesn’t look particularly embarrassed by the fact that she’s all but naked and being watched by a stranger.

“Who are you?” she asks, a bit warily.

“My name is Lancelot,” he replies. “Lancelot du Lac I am called. I’m a knight of Camelot, one of the Round Table.”

She doesn’t seem very impressed with that.

“I don’t know what a knight is,” her eyes are taking him in, measuring him. “But you’re certainly not of Camelot. I’ve never seen you; and believe me, I would remember if I had. Warriors of your stature are not easily found in Britain; even less ones that would have at least some manners.”

Lancelot bows courteously. “Your words honour me, my lady.”

“And with a honeyed tongue, too,” the girl picks up a wide-cut, royal blue robe and pulls it over her slowly drying shift. “My husband would doubtlessly welcome you in his household.”

“Your husband, lady?” Lancelot echoes, a bit disappointed by the fact that she’s already taken.

She nods. “I am Guinevere, daughter of the late Lord Leodegrance, wife to Lord Leontes: the only nobleman with considerable wealth and polish to pledge himself to Arthur’s case. Unfortunately, he’s also deadly boring. I wish I’d never honoured the agreement between him and my father and married him. But what’s done is done; and I can always find my entertainment while he’s away, trying to get killed for the boy King who seduced his bride on the very day of their wedding.”

“You… you cheated on your future husband with Arthur on your wedding day?” Lancelot is nearly speechless with shock.

Guinevere – and how on Earth could she wear the same name? – merely shrugs.

“That was my second mistake. But I was young and foolish. Now I’ve learned my lesson; and I know how to have a good time if I want it,” she steps closer to Lancelot and grabs him through the rough fabric of his breeches. “I see that you are in the need of some entertainment, too. Don’t worry; I know a place where we won’t be disturbed.”

Afterwards Lancelot cannot explain what might have ridden him to follow her to a nearby cave. But follow her he does, and they spend the entire morning making love, and Guinevere is skilled and clever and shameless, and he enjoys their time together very much. When they’re done, he’s not only completely wrung out with pleasure but he’s also learned a thing or two about women; and the memory of Gwen hasn’t even entered his mind the whole time.

It seems that Guinevere has also enjoyed their encounter very much, because she extracts the promise from him that they’ll do it again at some later time. Then she puts her blue robe back on and leaves, light-footed and merry, as if nothing happened. Lancelot needs a while to recover and return to the castle.

He knows he ought to be guilty, on behalf of that poor husband of the lady and because he’s enjoyed himself so thoroughly with somebody who wasn’t Gwen… well, she is Gwen’s counterpart in _this_ Camelot, so perhaps he, Lancelot, is the counterpart of Lord Leontes? 

If that’s so, then the mirror has twisted their fates rather oddly, with Guinevere not being Arthur’s wife here… he shrugs. It’s complicated, and he’s too sated to torture his brain about mirror worlds right now. One thing is sure, though: he would like to live in a world in which Gwen would be _his_.


	9. Birthright

**CHAPTER 09 – BIRTHRIGHT**

A few days later Queen Morgan and her court set off to return to Castle Pendragon. Arthur, Merlin and Lancelot go with them. What else could they do? _This_ world’s Camelot is a mere ruin. The true power lies elsewhere, and if they want to find a way back to their world, at first they need to learn more about the place where they have landed.

Arthur’s supporters – with the exception of Gawain and Brastias – choose to return to Pendragon Castle, too; if only to show Queen Igraine their support. At least that is Sir Kay’s confessed reason to do so; for the others it is like coming home, as they all used to live there during King Uther’s rule.

“I shall stay with Queen Igraine as long as she needs me,” explains Sir Kay to Lancelot, with whom he’s become fast friends, as they’re riding side by side in the long line of people. “Once she’s taken the veil, I’ll most likely return to my father’s manor. He was recently killed in a fight with King Lot; the lands need caring for and the people need someone to lead them.”

“Such a house will need a mistress, too,” comments Lancelot, because that’s the way of things and they both know it.

Sir Kay smiles. “I already have my eyes on somebody. Somebody who most likely won’t fit in with Morgan’s court anyway,” and her eyes briefly rest on the young woman whose name is apparently Bridget.

“Why wouldn’t she fit in?” wonders Lancelot, because the manners and the clothing of the girl reveal that she isn’t some common serving wench.

“She’s Guinevere’s cousin, a niece of the late Lord Leodegrance,” replies Sir Kay, “who used to be one of King Uther’s stoutest supporters. Our new Queen isn’t fond of her father’s faithful retainers, since they tended to support Arthur’s claim.”

“Like your father?” asks Lancelot, and Sir Kay nods.

“Yes, but our case is… special. The sorcerer Merlin entrusted Arthur to my parents as a babe. We grew up together. I didn’t know that Arthur was the King’s bastard… until last year, when Merlin came to take him away.”

“And you followed him…” trails off Lancelot questioningly.

Sir Kay shrugs. “He needed me. My father did try to teach him all the things he might need to know, but let him get away with too much. _Somebody_ had to rein him in from time to time.”

“And? Could you do it?” Somehow Lancelot cannot imagine _that_.

“Far too infrequently for my comfort,” admits Sir Kay ruefully. “He’s not a bad one as spoiled brats go, but a spoiled brat nonetheless.”

Lancelot laughs. “You sound like _our_ Merlin when complaining about Arthur.”

“Oh, believe me, _your_ Arthur is a mature adult, compared with our brat King,” says Sir Kay with feeling. “And I’d choose your _Merlin_ any time, if I had a choice.”

“Merlin is amazing,” agrees Lancelot, “although sometimes a little frightening, too. He might look like just a stick, but I’ve seen him glare down a dragon… and turn it away, saving Camelot in the process.”

Sir Kay shakes his head in amazement. “It’s hard to imagine that where you come from dragons actually exist.”

“There’s only one of them,” corrects Lancelot, “but there are still their smaller cousins, the vywerns, and all sort of magical creatures, most of them dangerous and hard to kill. There aren’t any such creatures here?”

“Not that I’d know of. We’ve got our wolves and bears, of course, but there’s nothing magical about those. There _are_ legends about dragons having lived here a long time ago, but no-one has seen one for hundreds of years.”

“I find that rather odd, seeing that magic _does_ exist in your world,” Lancelot says. “It must have a reason.”

Sir Kay shrugs. “I have no idea. Perhaps you’ll find something about it in my father’s books. Arthur had me bring our library to Camelot, but now that it’s no longer needed there, I’m taking it back to our manor house,” and he waves in the direction of a four-wheeled cart, pulled by a dun-coloured horse, covered with strong linen.

Lancelot considers the possibilities. 

“I think that would be a task for Merlin,” he then says. “He _loves_ poking around in old books.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When they finally reach Castle Pendragon, Arthur cannot help being disappointed. This world’s Camelot might be a ruin, yet one that still shows what an impressive building it once must have been. Castle Pendragon, though, is little more than a fortified manor house. ‘Tis hard to imagine that once it was the seat of a powerful king.

Powerful by _this_ world’s measure, that is.

Still, despite the rustic surroundings, Queen Morgan has clearly done a good job of re-organizing the royal household and fortifying the place. The high wall around the keep might be simple, but it is strong enough to withstand a small army, and the guards standing on the walls seem to know what they’re supposed to do. They are motionless like statues in their rough woollen tunics, holding long spears and round, red shields with a rearing black dragon depicted on them, but their eyes are watchful and nothing escapes their attention.

Morgan’s ladies-in-waiting are actually poor girls from the common folk she has raised to their positions at the court, but they look appealing in their red undershifts and black kirtles, wearing the Pendragon seal upon their chest. They are also quiet and competent, and show the guests to their rooms in no time, promising food and drinks being brought to said rooms and also the possibility of a bath.

In the inside the castle looks somewhat better, with its heavy but well-made tables and chairs and beds, beautifully woven wall hangings and massive silver and bronze dishes. The barbaric pomp reminds Lancelot of the court of Caerleon where he served for a short time as a hired sword.

That the kingdom is a rich one shows the feast the new Queen is throwing later that night to celebrate her recent rise to power and to honour her not-quite-voluntary guests. The food is not as refined as at any dinner in _their_ Camelot – far from it – but it’s plenty and delicious, and after the shortages at home they all give in to their ravenous appetites.

Even Merlin, whose position is a bit uncertain right now. He is definitely no longer Arthur’s servant. Not here. Not now. Here and now he is a foreigner with powerful magic - and warily respected for that.

He’s not sure he likes the change. Back home he might have been treated like a somewhat dumb servant, but at least people _liked_ him. _Arthur_ liked him, no matter how much the great clotpole tried to deny it. They were _friends_ – as much as a royal prince and his manservant could become.

Here and now Arthur hasn’t even spoken to him since the skirmish at Bardon Pass, save for what was absolutely necessary; and that hurts. He mourns for their unlikely friendship that might not be salvaged, regardless how their visit in this world may turn out.

Suddenly he is no longer interested in the feast and the entertainment. The music is too loud, the drunk people are even louder, and the dancing girls choose to… _entertain_ the young warriors. Lancelot has already left in the company of that blonde beauty who seems to be Gwen’s counterpart here, and Author is keeping company with Queen Morgan, of all people.

Which is not without a certain risk, but Merlin is sure he can see to it that the royal prat won’t be harmed. He doesn’t need to stay in the Great Hall for _that_ ; and he’s had enough. All he wants is a quiet corner and some rest; not that he’d go to sleep before Arthur returns. But he remembers where Sir Kay’s books have been put. He’ll borrow a few of them and read a little while, waiting for Arthur.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Arthur doesn’t notice Merlin’s departure; but again, he rarely does – and right now his attention is captured by the new Queen. The parallels between their worlds are every bit as captivating as the differences; and as Morgan describes her way to the throne with brutal honesty, he realizes that his own father, whom he’s always perceived as harsh and demanding, was actually a loving, doting parent.

Considering what _this_ world’s Uther Pendragon has done to his daughter, it’s small wonder that Morgan tried the utmost to wrangle her birthright back, no matter the costs.

Even though he finds the price too high.

“Was it worth all that?” he asks quietly. “Sacrificing your innocence, sullying your heart with dark magic and your hands with blood – and for what? For an ugly, uncomfortable piece of metal that they call a crown? Soon you won’t even have Sybil to watch your back. You’ll be alone.”

“I’ve _always_ been alone,” she replies simply. “But now I’ve re-claimed what is rightfully mine; and I’ll do my best to be a good Queen.”

“Only to prove your father wrong?”

“Him… and that damned sorcerer who’s been scheming against me for fifteen years or more,” there’s an evil gleam in her eyes. “You said magic is outlawed in _your_ Camelot. Do you think your father will do me the favour and have him beheaded? Or burned at the stake?”

“My father is but a shadow of himself,” says Arthur in sorrow. “Morgana’s betrayal has broken him. Right now, my uncle Agravaine runs the day-to-day business of the realm, but he is no warlord. He won’t be able to protect Camelot. I must go back, as soon as possible. I am the Prince Regent, and I am _needed_.”

“As much as I’d prefer to have you here instead of my idiot brother, I can understand that,” she replies. “I promise to work with that sorcerer boy of yours to get you back… if it is doable at all. In the meantime, though, I’m asking for your support. No-one of my supporters is a warlord, either; and the Saxons are a serious threat. They’ll think the kingdom vulnerable when they learn that a woman has taken the throne. I’m quite good with the sword,” she adds, “but I cannot lead my men to battle. Not _yet_. That’s the one thing I could not learn in the nunnery, and with Leontes gone, I have no-one left to learn from.”

Arthur considers her request. It’s not an unreasonable one. He understands the need to protect one’s kingdom; and he knows what it is like when your own flesh and blood ally themselves with your mortal enemy, out of vengeful hatred.

Besides, as long as they still _are_ here, it is in their best interest to keep the place safe.

“All right,” he finally says. “As long as we are here, I shall help you. As for working with Merlin, I wish you luck. He can be fairly judgemental at times… not that I can say I know what’s going on in that head of his. For over three years I thought I did. But now… I’m not sure I ever really knew him.”

“You are disappointed,” says Morgan. It is not a question.

“I thought I could trust him,” Arthur stares into the fire, defeated. “But it seems he’s been lying to me all the time.”

“He protected you,” Morgan points out. “ _And_ he spared you a confrontation with your father. What would you have done if you knew he was a sorcerer? Told your father and condemned him to a painful death? Or would you risk losing your father’s trust by lying to him?”

“I don’t know,” admits Arthur. “Sometimes my father’s ways seem too harsh; but I’ve seen the horrors magic can do, and now I ask myself if he wasn’t right, after all.”

“There’s no easy answer to that,” says Morgan thoughtfully. “Here, magic is a forgotten art; learning – and using – it comes with high personal costs. For your sorcerer boy, however, it seems as easy and natural as breathing. If he was indeed born that way…”

“So was Morgana,” Arthur interrupts, “And we all saw how _that_ turned out.”

“Magic is a two-edged sword,” Morgan agrees, “but you must try to see both sides. Has _your_ Merlin, to your knowledge, ever used his gift to harm you – or anyone else?”

Arthur shakes his head mutely.

“Then you should try to remain in his good graces,” says Morgan. “An ally like him can be very useful. One day you’ll become King and _your_ word will be law. You can make sure then that his powers will be your shield… not a sword raised against you.”

“I don’t know how to do it,” mutters Arthur, and Morgan rolls her eyes in exasperation.

“Speaking with him might be a beginning,” she suggests dryly.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morning Merlin is having a strange encounter of his own. Unlike Arthur and Lancelot, he was careful enough not to overdo the drinking on the previous evening; he doesn’t quite believe in Queen Morgan’s good intentions, based on his experiences with _their_ Morgana; and quite frankly, the nun gives him the creeps. So he spent some time and effort to weave a thick web of protection spells around Arthur before nicking off due to exhaustion himself, and he was also the first of them to wake up in the morning and wander around the castle to find the right herbs for a hangover cure which, he knows would be sorely needed once Arthur gets up.

It is in the nearby woods when he spots a vaguely familiar shape and he holds his search in interest.

When the assistant of Queen Morgan entered the Great Hall in the previous evening, wearing a richly embroidered robe in jewelled colours, at first Merlin thought that Gwen might have been transferred with them somehow. But a second glance told him that this woman was definitely _not_ Gwen. The only thing they shared was their dark skin.

Now that he gets the unexpected chance to observe her in the bright light of the day, he can notice all the significant differences.

This woman, young though she might be, shows a sombre maturity that is rarely seen. Her thick, curly black hair is short-cropped, like that of a slave, her features are delicately beautiful and her almond-shaped eyes mirror infinite sadness. Her high forehead is half-covered by an intricate tattoo that Merlin finds eerily familiar, but it takes him a while before he recognizes it.

“You bear the mandala of water and earth on your skin!” exclaims Merlin in surprise.

The woman, who’s been addressed as Vivian by the members of the court, is equally surprised. 

“You know this mark?” she asks, her voice low and soft.

Merlin nods. “All elements have their sacred symbols, recognized by every born warlock, even though yours are hidden in an intricate pattern of other symbols. A full mandala should consist of all the symbols of the four elements. That you only bear one half of it says that your powers are based on water and earth.”

Vivian frowns at him, clearly confused. “What powers? I’m not a sorceress.”

“No,” agrees Merlin. “You are undoubtedly a witch. Somebody who’s born with magic, just like I am.”

“Nonsense,” she says sharply. “No-one is _born_ with magic. To use sorcery requires a lot of training and comes with a high price. I saw what it does to my lady. I won’t wish that for myself.”

“ _Sorcery_ perhaps; especially dabbling in the dark arts,” allows Merlin. “But there _are_ people who are born with _magic_. I am one of those. I was able to move things with my mind before I learned to speak. It is as natural for me as breathing. And _you_ are clearly one of those born with magic, too; or else you wouldn’t be bearing these symbols.”

“It is merely a family tradition,” she says dismissively. “My people were brought here from the South by the Romans as slaves. It has always been custom among us to adorn our bodies with such art, as we could not afford anything else.”

Merlin shakes his head, smiling.

“Are you sure? Perhaps the meaning of such marks has been forgotten, as there wasn’t anyone left to interpret the symbols. But your… _art_ is clearly a complex magic sign; perhaps it even hides a spell to awaken your slumbering powers. It’s known to have been done in the olden days, when people did not write books yet.”

“Could you figure out the spell?” she asks warily.

Merlin shrugs. “I can try; but I have to warn you: to wake up raw powers that have been sleeping for so long could be… unpleasant at best. There’s no way to foretell what might happen.”

“Why should I take such risks, then?” she asks.

“Because it is your _birthright_ ,” replies Merlin seriously. “Magic is part of you, as much as your hearing and your eyesight. Would you want to go through your life blind and deaf if you could change it?”

 _That_ surprises her, and she thinks about it for a while.

“But it could also overwhelm me, could it not?” she then asks.

Merlin nods. “At first, perhaps. But I’ll be here to teach you how to deal with it.”

She falls silent for a while again.

“I must think about this,” she then says and Merlin agrees.

“It’s not an easy decision; and you, at least, have a choice. Take your time. There is no hurry.”

“Show me what you can do,” she suddenly says. “Show me that it doesn’t have to be dark and frightening. Show me something beautiful.”

Merlin thinks for a moment; then he smiles and conjures up a small, bright flame, which he turns into a swarm of dancing butterflies, their jewel-hued wings sparkling in the sunshine. Vivian watches them fly in an ever-widening circle, a sense of wonder upon her beautiful face, and she laughs in delight as she hasn’t laughed since she was a very young child.


	10. A Close Call

**CHAPTER 10 – A CLOSE CALL**

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On the next day Sir Leon appears in the dungeons and takes Arthur with him.

“King Uther has decided that you are not a danger for Camelot,” he tells the boy King on their way up. “For the time being you are our guest… on probation. You’ll get your chambers in the guest wing and a manservant to look after your needs, as it behoves a prince of the Pendragon line.”

“But what am I supposed to do here?” asks Arthur, feeling more than a little lost. This strange town with its grandiose Citadel cannot be compared with the Camelot he knows. He does not belong here, and he has the uncomfortable feeling that he’d be found wanting by King Uther, in every possible way.

“Lord Leontes says you are a good swordsman and a passable archer,” replies Sir Leon. “You’ll practice with the Knights of Camelot to hone your skills further. _And_ you’ll be tutored by Master Geoffrey in all things a King ought to know. For we hope to send you back to _your_ Camelot one day, and get _our_ Prince back. And when that happens, you’ll be better prepared to rule than you are now.”

“But what are you telling the people who am I?”

“A distant cousin from Cumbria, who happens to bear the same name as our Prince. You came for a visit with Lord Leontes and will stay for a while,” the First Knight of Camelot shrugs. “Which is the truth… more or less.”

“And what about Merlin?”

“Oh, he’ll burn, soon enough. Sorcery is outlawed in Camelot; and an attempt to attack the King with magic means a death sentence. Be glad the King doesn’t suspect you having a part in it. You, too, could become a head shorter in no time.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Fortunately for Merlin, Lord Agravaine has already taken steps to spring him from the dungeon. Drastic steps, for certain, but desperate times demand desperate measures. Especially as he decided that bringing Morgana here just to free the sorcerer would be too much of a risk.

“I have done for you what I can,” he says, appearing at Merlin’s cell as soon as Sir Leon has left with Arthur. “The guards of this duty shift are all sworn to me, and there’s a horse waiting just outside the citadel to take you to a safe place. There’s one thing I cannot do, however: removing your chains. They’re magically enhanced, and without a key only magic can break them. Do you think you’ll be able to do it? They’re strong, very strong; strong enough that once they held a dragon captive.”

This is definitely _not_ the news Merlin was hoping for, but he’s willing to take the risk. Dying by over-extending his powers is still better than burning at the stake.

“I can try,” he answers. “But even if I succeed, I won’t be able to leave this cell on my own afterwards. Using magic takes a toll on the user.”

“That doesn’t matter,” says Agravaine. “If you can break the chains, I’ll have one of the guards take you to your horse. But you must hurry up; in two hours the guards will be changed.”

Merlin nods and focuses intently. Agravaine watches with morbid fascination as some dark aura – like black mist – surrounds him and he starts bleeding from the eyes. Then there’s a loud _clang_ and the enchanted chains fell from the sorcerer’s wrists and ankles. The black mist evaporates, and Merlin collapses on the stone floor.

“Quickly,” says Agravaine to his trusted guards. “Take him to the horse we’ve prepared. Calain,” that’s his personal manservant, “will then see him to safety.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The guest chambers he’s taken to are more luxurious than anything Arthur has seen in his entire life. An overly serious young man of about his own age is waiting for him, wearing the simple brown jacket and red neckerchief of low-ranking Castle servants. He looks eager and competent, though Arthur still doesn’t know what he’d need a personal manservant for. He never had one – and never missed having one.

“This is George,” Sir Leon introduces the young man. “He’s been serving in the Citadel since the age of twelve and knows it like the back of his hand. He’ll see that you’re always well fed and properly dressed and will take you to all the places where you need to be. Should you have any questions about our laws and customs, I’m quite certain he’ll be able to answer them,” Sir Leon glances at the hourglass standing on the mantelpiece and frowns. “I’ll leave you in his competent hands. By the end of the hour Lord Leontes will come to take you to the audience chamber. King Uther wishes to see you. I’d suggest being well-mannered and truthful. The King does not suffer people who try lying to him kindly.”

By the time Arthur has been scrubbed clean by his frighteningly competent manservant and dressed up in the finest clothes he’s worn in his young life (George comments that these were Prince Arthur’s outgrown clothes, which makes him wonder just how big his counterpart might be), Leontes arrives to fetch him. 

He, too, is decked out splendidly, according to his rank; not that he’d had such fine clothes back home. He is coldly courteous to Arthur, as it behoves from a landed lord towards his King, but the closeness and friendship they once enjoyed is gone. Most likely for good.

The audience chamber of King Uther – _this_ world’s King Uther – is every bit as grand and any other room Arthur has seen so far. The King sits in his high chair, flanked by two old men, who are introduced as court physician Gaius and court genealogist Geoffrey de Monmouth, respectively. Lord Agravaine, who was acting as vice-regent until recently, is curiously absent.

But Arthur only has eyes for the King. He never knew his real father but was told enough tales about Uther’s heavy-handedness and ruthless way not to mourn that particular loss. Despite his refined surroundings, _this_ Uther Pendragon does not seem very different. His clean-shaven, broad face belies his cultured appearance; his small eyes are cold and pale like pebbles and appear to see through mark and bone. 

No, these are not the eyes one could lie to. It is fortunate that Arthur doesn’t intend to lie. He has no reason to do so.

The audience begins with the King welcoming Arthur to Camelot and lasts for the better part of an hour. Arthur tries his best to answer the questions asked by the King and the two old men but has to realise how little he actually knows about the things going on back home. Fortunately, Leontes is more experienced and better informed – and willing to help out.

To their surprise it’s mostly Merlin and the kind of sorcery he’s practicing the King and his counsellors are most interested in. Presumably to find a way to send them home and get their own Prince back. Although at least the old men appear to be certain that the exchange was caused by someone from _this_ world. Someone caused Morgause.

“And how does that fact help us?” asks the King.

“It does not, sire; on the contrary,” the old physician, Gaius, sighs. “What little we know about the nature of the veil indicates that a temporary gateway can only be opened from the _other_ side.”

“But is anyone from your world strong enough to do so?” asks Master Geoffrey the guests.

Arthur and Leontes exchange helpless looks.

“The only known sorcerer of our world is Merlin, and he’s here,” Leontes finally says. “There’s still Princess Morgan, of course, who likes to dabble in the dark arts, but no-one can tell what she’s truly capable of.”

Arthur shakes his head. “She wouldn’t help them. She’d be happy to have me out of her hair.”

“Don’t be so sure,” says Leontes with a crooked smile. “What I’ve heard of Prince Arthur, Morgan might have gotten more than she’s bargained for. She might be grateful to _have_ you back.”

“Unlikely,” replies Arthur dryly. “I think we’d be better off if we asked Merlin what he could do… as long as it isn’t too late,” he adds with a look in the King’s direction.

“It would be worth a try, sire,” old Gaius is the only one who seems to seriously consider the idea. “He _is_ from the other side, after all. And if he can reopen the gateway, we’d be rid of him anyway. The most important thing is to get Prince Arthur and the others back.”

That clearly hits a chord with the King. “I’ll think about it.”

“There’s the other possibility we need to consider,” says Master Geoffrey. “What if we _cannot_ reverse the exchange?”

The silence reveals that the others have asked themselves that question, too. Old Gaius’s shoulders droop in defeat. Either the Prince or one of his companions must be very important to him.

“You’ll have to name an heir, sire,” continues Master Geoffrey cautiously. “Or else there won’t be anything that could keep Lady Morgana from taking the throne. Again.”

The curious mix of wrath and bone-deep sorrow upon the King’s face is a terrible sight to behold.

“I shall name _him_ my heir before I’d allow that,” he says, indicating at Arthur with his set jaw. “But it is too early to consider such drastic steps yet,” he shakes a bell and an elderly manservant enters. “Morris, take a few guards and bring that filthy sorcerer up from the dungeons. In chains, so that he won’t be able to escape.”

Morris bows deeply and scurries away. They wait in tense silence for what seems eternity. Then the old servant comes back, deathly pale and very upset.

“Sire, the sorcerer… he’s gone!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“ _This_ is supposed to be their greatest sorcerer?” Morgana looks down at the filthy middle-aged man in the tattered clothes in disbelief. Dried blood and deeply etched dark lines are covering the man’s face, making him look even less impressive than he already is.

Lord Agravaine shrugs. “Well, he managed to break the magically enhanced chains that used to keep the Great Dragon captive, so he must know his trade. Apparently, he needs to recover every time he uses his powers, though. Perhaps in their world magic works differently.”

“Or he wasn’t born with it,” says Morgana thoughtfully. “Even here, if one only knows what one is taught, using magic can drain one’s strength. Why did you bring him here?”

“I thought he might be useful. He won’t be very fond of the King, seeing that he’s supposed to burn at the stake, soon.”

“Yet back home he was a stout supporter of Arthur… _their_ Arthur. What makes you think he’ll be ready to help me? In his eyes I’ll be the enemy.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can bend him to your will,” says Lord Agravaine with a thin, unpleasant smile.

Morgana looks at him coolly. “Of course I can. I’m just not sure it would be worth the effort. And I’m not pleased that you had a complete stranger brought to my home – such as it is in these days – without asking me first.”

Her eyes flash in gold for a moment, and Agravaine feels searing pain in his head, as if somebody had rammed a hot knife through his temples. He begins to understand that the Lady Morgana wouldn’t be as easy to manipulate for his purposes as he might have thought. She is still a young girl, but one with fearsome powers; and one who has grown up under Uther’s tutelage, learning how to get what she wants – and not to care about collateral damage.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he says demurely. “It shan’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t,” she replies icily. “Next time I won’t be so merciful. Hurry back now before somebody notices your absence. We don’t want the King become suspicious.”

“What about the sorcerer?”

“Leave him with me. I shall take care of him; and I don’t doubt that he’ll be happy to tell me everything I need to know.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After the audience by the King Leontes takes Arthur to the training yard of the Knights of Camelot, which clearly sees a lot of action. An impressive range of weapons is on display: on tables and in racks arranged around the yard. The cobbles are littered with straw from the practice dummies and a number of large, round wooden shields are set up for archery targets.

A group of knights in knee-length mail shirts are practicing swordfight on foot, under the stern supervision of Sir Leon. They do not hold back and Arthur winces in sympathy as the one or other catches a particularly heavy blow. Despite mail shirt and breastplates, _that_ has to hurt!

“And I thought Gawain was hard on our people,” he says to Leontes, who nods in agreement.

One of the knights, a slightly long haired, hawk-faced man, catches the comment and stops beating the living highlight out of his opponent.

“I never raised a hand against any of you,” he says with a frown.

Leontes raises a placating hand. “He didn’t mean you, Sir Gwaine. We’ve got a weapons master named Gawain back home; he is a bit heavy-handed with new recruits.”

“It’s for their own good,” quotes Arthur the grim warrior, and they both laugh, the easy familiarity of old back for a moment.

“I am sure it is,” says Sir Leon, grinning. “Let us see than how much good hard training has done for the two of you,” he looks at Arthur and his grin widens briefly. “I won’t expose you to Gwaine’s dirty fighting style just yet; you’ll spar with me. Lord Leontes, you may choose your opponent freely: Gwaine, Elyan and Percival are all available.”

“If Sir Gwaine doesn’t mind, I’d like to test my sword against his,” says Leontes. “I like a good challenge.”

The hawk-faced knight grins like a loon. “So do I. It’s a shame that Lancelot isn’t here; he’d give you a run you’d never forget. But I’ll do my best to defend Camelot’s honour in his absence.”

“We shall watch,” decides Sir Leon. “ _Then_ I’ll give the boy a chance to show his skills. I’d like to see if he’s truly as good as you say he is.”

Arthur doesn’t like being called _the boy_ but finds it better to let it go for now. Like everyone else, he wants to see Leontes spar with Sir Gwaine – and it turns out a spectacular sight indeed. He’s always known that Leontes is good with a sword; but he’s never seen the man spar with someone who’s his equal, both in skill and experience.

The two are evenly matched, but while Leontes uses a more traditional fighting pattern, Sir Gwaine fights dirty indeed. Leontes, however, rises up to the challenge and, after a long and virtuous swordfight they end up in draws, much to the local knights’ amazement.

“He _would_ stand a chance against Lancelot,” says Sir Elyan. “Perhaps even against Prince Arthur.”

“Lancelot is a better swordsman than the princess,” says Sir Gwaine loyally, and the other knights ignore the lame joke made at their missing Prince’s costs.

“Perhaps,” allows Sir Elyan. “But Arthur in attack mode is like a landslide. I wonder if this little cousin of his is anything like him.”

“We’ll see,” says Sir Leon. “Give him a practice sword and a mail shirt.”

The pages hurriedly obey. At first Arthur finds wearing a mail shirt uncomfortable – he never used on back home – but he gets used to it quickly enough and has to admit that it gives a much more effective protection than a leather jerkin. He knows Sir Leon won’t go easy on him, but that is fine. He _wants_ to show his skill with the blade, to prove himself worthy; to earn the respect of these knights, without Merlin lying for him.

Besides, his fighting skills are the only thing he’s achieved on his own, without the questionable help of the sorcerer. He is good enough to face down Gawain in single combat, and _that_ isn’t something many people in Britain can say about themselves.

He realizes at once that against Sir Leon he would need a different tactic, though. While Gawain uses his superior strength most of the time (he _is_ stronger than anyone Arthur has ever met, with the possible exception of Sir Percival), Sir Leon relies on speed and skill. The same things _Arthur_ relies on as a rule. And he _is_ fast and very skilled indeed. Arthur’s only advantages are his youth and his lesser body mass, which allows him to be even faster.

In the end, though, experience wins over youth… albeit not by much.

“Not bad for such a skinny boy,” declares Sir Leon, while a page helps him out of his mail shirt. “Your technique needs a little improvement, but regular practice can help with that. We’ll make a proper knight of you yet. Now go, have a good wash and George will take you to Master Geoffrey.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It takes Merlin twenty hours of sleep to recover from the effort it took him to break then enchanted chains. He comes to in a small hut somewhere in the woods, with only a bitterly beautiful young lady as his company. 

A lady she must be, for she’s richly clad, though all her clothes are black. Black is her lush hair, too, creating an almost shocking contrast to her piercing blue eyes. Her face is more than pale, almost chalk white, and she wears no face paint, so that her lips barely have any colour. There’s an unhealthy aura about her; one Merlin has learned to associate with the using of the dark arts.

With a heartfelt groan, he manipulates himself into a sitting position.

“Where am I?” he asks. “And who are you?”

There is a flash of irritation upon her face and he could have sworn that her eyes, too, flashed golden for a moment.

“I am Morgana Pendragon,” she replies icily, “and you are in my home – such as it is in these days.”

Merlin glances around and has to admit that a primitive cove like this isn’t truly fitting for the daughter of a King. She seems to know what he’s thinking because her pale lips curl back in a snarl.

“This is a temporary setback,” she tells him haughtily. “Soon I shall re-claim my crown and my throne and make those who’ve exiled me pay dearly.”

Merlin shakes his head in bewilderment. What is it with Uther Pendragon’s daughter that she’s so obsessed with throne and power in both worlds?

He must have spoken out the thought loudly because her eyes flash golden again.

“What do you mean with _in both worlds_?” she demands. “Tell me!”

Merlin realizes that she hasn’t heard yet about the magical exchange… and that it would be probably best is she never learned about it. But it is too late now, and he’s too exhausted to come up with a convincing lie on the spot. 

So he simply refuses to say anything… which also proves to be a bad idea. Because in the next moment he gets a taste of what raw, in-born power can do. The Lady Morgana tears through his mind as if through old, brittle parchment, peeling away the layers of concealment and lies as one might peel an onion, laying free everything he’s done since the very hour in which he put that glamour on Uther that enabled the King to seduce Lady Igraine. Back when she was till the wife of Uther’s stoutest ally.

Then she’s done and clearly, thoroughly disgusted with him.

“Vermin,” she hisses. “How did Agravaine _dare_ to bring you here, knowing what you’ve done? He’ll pay for having sullied my home with your presence; and so will you!”

Her eyes are burning like molten gold, and an invisible wind seems to blow her hair around her like a black cloud as she raises both hands, fingers bent like the claws on a bird-of-prey, and she hisses the incantation in a strange, harsh tongue.

“ _No bebiede ic the thaet thu lastest thine flaecslice gelicnysse!_ ”*

Merlin barely has the time for a protective spell but id does him no good anyway. His bones creak and hurt beyond endurance as he begins to shrink rapidly. His face elongates into a pointed snout and grey fur covers his entire body as he falls onto all fours and scurries away in panic – in the body of a large rat.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Back in the Citadel, the Knights of Camelot have finished their practice, and Sir Leon invites Leontes and Gwaine to a tavern where he knows they cannot be overheard. He is interested in more details that might be similar – or indeed very different – in their respective worlds; and he’s interested in Leontes as a person, for more important reasons than just idle curiosity.

He asks Gwaine to tag along because Gwaine is the most worldly and far-travelled among the knights (now that Lancelot is gone) and because he is the only one who seems to have a direct counterpart in Leontes’s Camelot… the only knight anyway.

Leontes is ready enough to answer his questions, and Sir Leon finds it fascinating how some things seem to be the same in their worlds, while others are exactly the other way round. Ant that well beyond the exchanged roles of Arthur and Morgan/Morgana.

“The great difference seems to be the lack of true magic in your world,” says Gwaine thoughtfully. “It is forbidden in Camelot, but it seems to be missing entirely in your Britain.”

“Not _entirely_ ,” corrects Leontes. “Both Merlin and Princess Morgan seem to be dabbling it in copiously.”

But the world-wise knight shakes his head.

“That is not magic; that is sorcery,” he says. “Sorcery requires incantations, spells. It takes years to study… and it takes a great deal of strength out of the user. The more powerful a spell is, the more strength it drains from the sorcerer.”

Leontes nods. “I know. I saw Merlin bleeding from the eyes after casting a spell; and they say the same happened to Princess Morgan from time to time.”

“True magic, however, is _elemental_ , “continues Gwaine, ignoring the interruption. “To a born warlock or witch it comes as naturally as breathing. They use their in-born powers instinctively; like a bird that simply spreads its wings and flies. For them, spells and incantations are mere tools for getting a better hold on their powers; which is why they study them all their lives. They make the use of their powers easier; but the powers themselves come from within. You don’t have such people back home, do you?”

Leontes shakes his head thoughtfully. “Not anymore. They say the Elves – the Fair Folk – used to have such natural powers. But they’ve withdrawn from our world since the new religion began to spread and haven’t been seen for many human lifetimes. Not since Camelot – I mean _our_ Camelot – has fallen to ruin. It used to be the heart of the old, heathen kingdoms, a long time ago, when Britain was an alliance of small kingdoms under the rule of a High King.”

“Is that why your boy King was housing in the ruins of the old castle?” asks Sir Leon, and Leontes nods.

“Merlin was certain that one day Arthur would reunite all the petty kingdoms of Britain, with Camelot rebuilt as his seat,” he replies. “That’s why he helped King Uther to get into Lady Igraine’s bed and took Arthur as a babe to hide him in Sir Ector’s house. Why he… _led_ the dying King’s hand to sign the writ that named Arthur his heir, even though Princess Morgan was the older, the only legitimate child. Not that the King needed much persuasion,” he adds dryly. “He always hated his daughter because Morgan reminded him of his greatest sin.”

“What sin?”

“That he had Queen Anna killed, just so that he could marry the Lady Igraine. Whose husband he’d also killed,” Leontes shrugs. “Taking other people’s wives seems to be a passion with the Pendragon line. At least Arthur didn’t have me assassinated.”

“And yet you keep supporting him,” says Gwaine.

Leontes shrugs again. “I’ve taken a vow; and I don’t go back on my word. I wish I could; at least where my marriage is concerned. To think that my bride has lain with Arthur before she’d have lain with me…” he shakes his head, the old pain piercing his heart again.

“You’d be better off as a Knight of Camelot,” offers Sir Leon. “In a case like this you’d have the right to have your marriage annulled, according to our laws.”

“Perhaps,” allows Leontes. “But I cannot stay here. Three came through the Veil and three have passed to our side. I cannot condemn my counterpart to a life in our world.”

“But you don’t _have_ a counterpart here,” points out Sir Leon.

“He might,” says Gwaine. “What about Lancelot?”

“That’s hardly the same,” argues Sir Leon. “The King, the Queen, Prince Arthur, Lady Morgana, Merlin, even you… but those are the only ones we know of.”

“What about Guinevere?” asks Gwaine, and Leontes blinks.

“Do you mean my wife or the little serving wench who likes to dress up like a lady? Because they’re quite different. My wife’s father, Leodegrance of Cameliard, was a landed lord who raised his daughter like a princess. Not someone your servant girl could be compared with, even though she clearly likes putting on airs.”

“It happens when the Crown Prince falls head over heels in love with a serving girl and is even delusional enough to want to marry her,” says Sir Leon darkly. “I like Gwen, I really do – we practically grew up together – but she’s in no way suited to become Queen of Camelot.”

“And the lords of the realm would never accept her,” adds Gwaine unhappily. “Arthur is risking to lose a lot of support by defying his father in this matter.”

“Giving Lady Morgana an excellent weapon against himself,” finished Sir Leon. “The nobles of the court will easily forget ‘Queen’ Morgana’s reign of terror when it means that they won’t have to endure the blacksmith’s daughter sitting on the throne.”

“Which is why we’d welcome an ally like you,” adds Gwaine. “You seem to have won the King’s trust and goodwill. It’s only a matter of time till you’ll get some lands granted to you; there are enough of those fallen back to the Crown because their owners were killed in the war against King Cenred and the family has died out. We – that is _Leon_ – could place a suggestion or two.”

“Think about it,” takes over Sir Leon. “You could be freed from a marriage that has been but a farce since the beginning. You can find a new wife – a new _life_ – here, could rise in the ranks of the court… even become one of us if that’s what you want. All Knights of Camelot are nobly born… well, save for Elyan and Lancelot, but they are special cases. You’d be much better off here; and it seems to me that no-one would miss you back home.”

“Except those who rely on me.”

“One of whom is here with you. There’s no telling if you’d ever make it back; and no-one can force you to actually go back.”

“But if I don’t go back, your friend Lancelot might be stuck in or world!”

“And would be better off there, too,” says Gwaine bluntly. “Prince Arthur might have made him a Knight of Camelot, but the King would never accept him. He, too, could make a name and a life for himself in your Britain – without pining after the girl who chose the Prince over him.”

“I’m not sure he’d see it that way.”

“Perhaps not,” allows Sir Leon. “But if he decides to _come_ back, it is a moot point anyway. You, however, should give your own future some serious thought.”

“I will,” promises Leontes; then they have to go back to the Citadel. Sir Leon has his duties, and Leontes must look after the boy King who is still his responsibility.  
_____________________________________________________________________  
* Now I command you to leave behind your carnal body similar to sorrow. – This is the same spell Morgana uses to turn Gwen into a deer in the Season 4 episode "The Hunter’s Heart”.


	11. The Queen's Champion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Saxons are about as historically correct as everyone else in the “Merlin” series – meaning not at all. The same about the name Beowulf that has nothing to do with the hero of the similarly-named poem.  
> And no, I didn’t want Arthur to miss his great single combat scene from “His Father’s Son”, so I gave him a different chance to shine. He might be a clotpole, but I like him.

**CHAPTER 11 – THE QUEEN’S CHAMPION**

A few days after Queen Morgan’s return to Castle Pendragon her predictions come true. An errand rider comes from Lord Lucan on a ridden-down horse with the bad news that Saxon troops have been sighted near Bardon Pass. Morgan is not the least surprised.

“’Twas only a matter of time,” she says wryly. “They clearly want to wrangle the throne from me before I could establish my rule fully. They will be surprised.”

“Do you have the troops to fight them?” asks Arthur doubtfully.

“I have _some_ troops,” she replies; then she glances in the direction of Sir Kay. “And I _hope_ that I’ll have a Marshal, too, who can lead them.”

“You’re expecting _me_ to help you?” asks Kay in stunned disbelief. “After what happened to my parents at the hand of King Lot?”

“Well, your father did kill Lot, didn’t he?” returns Morgan sharply. “What is past is past. And no, I don’t expect you to help _me_ ; _I have_ the means to protect myself. I hope, though that you’re willing to help protect the borders. I understand if you wish to leave, or see the death of your parents as blood between us that cannot be ignored, but the _people_ need protection, and I would welcome your aid. I cannot do _that_ alone.”

“Then you should find someone who can,” says Kay slowly. “I am not going to fight for you, _Queen_ Morgan. I’ve lost everyone I held dear because of you… that should be enough.”

For a moment Morgan looks as if she’d been slapped. Then she shakes it off with practical ease. She must have been slapped a lot in her young life, thinks Lancelot, if she can take it without a whimper.

Merlin must be thinking along the same lines because he’s nudging Arthur quite visibly.

“Come on, you great prat, you’ve promised,” he whispers all too loudly. Although the anxious looks he keeps giving the quiet, withdrawn Vivian indicate that the _Queen’s_ safety isn’t his main concern. “I’m going with you,” he adds, and the usual sarcastic reply gets stuck in Arthur’s throat, because _now_ he knows that Merlin is actually capable of dealing with a small army on his own.

Perhaps even with a not-so-small one.

“And I,” says Lancelot, stepping up to them.

“Very well,” says Arthur; then he looks at Kay. “I know you don’t want anything to do with this, but can you at least gather the men-at-arms and tell them to listen to me? It would make my job a lot easier.”

Kay nods reluctantly, and less than an hour later the combined troops of Morgan _and_ Arthur gather in the front yard of the castle. It’s still a pitifully small, rag-tag army, but at least Arthur’s men-at-arms are highly trained – by the dour warrior named Gawain who refused to come with them from Camelot, apparently.

Arthur questions Lord Lucan’s errand rider to learn more about the strength of the Saxon troops. The news he receives is _not_ encouraging.

“We’ll be outnumbered one to four, in the best case,” he tells Morgan, Lancelot and Merlin, with whom he’s holding a war council in the throne room. “We cannot afford an open battle with them,” he glances at Merlin. “We might need some dirty tricks.”

For a moment it looks as if Merlin would answer something unfriendly; then he reconsiders and simply nods.

“I could ride forth and help the people build some defences,” offers Lancelot. “If we can block the Pass, at least for a while, it could slow down the invasion, if nothing else.”

Arthur nods. “Go. You already know Lord Lucan’s people. They’ll listen to you.”

Lancelot sketches a bow and leaves. Only moments later they can see him galloping away.

“Anything else we can do?” asks Morgan, and Arthur nods.

“Yes. You can send errand riders to the outlying villages between here and the Pass and warn them to prepare for an invasion: bring their families and livestock to safety, hide their food supplies. Empty the granaries and take the grain to caves or bury it in the earth if they have to. Should we be unable to stop the Saxons – or to stop them in time – at least the common folk won’t starve next winter.”

“You can also ask for volunteers to help protect the border,” suggests Merlin. “Whatever they might think about the quarrel between you and your brother, they wouldn’t want an army of looters and pillagers in their homes.”

Morgan calls one of her ladies and soon other mounted youths can be seen riding away. Arthur is content with the state of things.

“We’ve done all we could in advance,” he declares. “We’ll leave for Bardon Pass, first light in the morning.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to leave right away?” asks Morgan with a frown.

Arthur shakes his head. “No. It is better if the men have a good night’s sleep before riding into battle.”

“Very well,” says Morgan. “But I’ll go with you.”

“That’s not a good idea,” begins Arthur, but Morgan interrupts.

“It _has_ to be. Many people won’t trust me just because I’m a woman. I must prove them that I can lead them in battle, too. You won’t stay here forever, and we saw that I cannot count on Sir Kay. I would have given him a chance to prove himself, but he refused; so I must go instead.”

“It’s madness!”

“No, it isn’t. I’m trained in swordfight; and I have other means to protect myself, as you know. It’s not up to debate.”

Arthur has learned through dealing with Morgana (back, when they were still friends… sort of) that there are some fights a man just cannot win. Besides, this is Morgan’s realm and Morgan’s fight. He’s just her warlord… for the time being. So he simply shrugs and orders the men to rest. They’ll need their strength in the morning.

 _* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *_  
In the morning, when they ride off at daybreak indeed, with their rag-tag army. The only ones wearing a proper mail shirt are Arthur and Queen Morgan, who looks magnificent in it – and in the long-sleeved leather gown with the split skirt that she wears under it – like someone who’s gone armed all her life. The longsword on her sword belt has clearly been made for a man – presumably for her father – but no-one doubts that she’ll be able to wield it… even if she has to wield it two-handedly.

The only thing out of order is her long, silky hair that she’s let down as most of the times. It covers her back like a cape; beautiful yet impractical, as it keeps getting caught in the links of her mail.

When Arthur comments on it, she rolls her eyes; then grabs her hair with both hands and twists it into a tight knot on the nape of her neck.

“Better?” she asks impatiently, and Arthur nods, resigned. She isn’t wearing a helmet, just a field crown: a heavy gold circlet, studded with jewels. At least it has one arch bending above the top of her head; perhaps that will soften any blow she might get in battle.

They set off and Arthur dictates a gruelling speed as time is an issue right now. There’s a reason why he insisted that the men had a good night’s sleep. But Morgan and her hand-picked guards can keep up with him. The other men-at-arms just grit their teeth and ride after them at some distance.

In fact, the only one who looks decidedly unhappy is Merlin. Nothing new there, though. Apparently, there isn’t any powerful spell against being saddle-sore.

Along the way people from the outlying villages join them to strengthen their troops: simple farmers who care little about the power struggle between King Uther’s children but know all too well what looting and pillaging barbarians could – and _would_ – do to their homes, livestock and families. They are poorly armed: with axes, pitchforks and straightened scythes, but they’re grimly determined to protect that which they hold dear.

They also look up to their new Queen with admiration. Clearly, Morgan’s recent actions – namely giving people food and shelter in the times of trouble – have won the common folk over; at least a great number of them. And Arthur grudgingly accepts that she truly _needs_ to come with them. To prove her subjects that she’s as willing and able to protect them as her father was.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The spearhead of their forces – that is, Morgan, Arthur, Merlin and the mounted men who came with them from Castle Pendragon – reaches Lord Lucan’s manor shortly before sunset, with the village people tagging after them at a much slower pace, their simple workhorses not being able to keep up with the guards’ destriers. Lord Lucan is utterly relieved to see them, although it is clear that he and his people haven’t been idle in the meantime, either.

“We’ve built traps and blockades at both ends of the Pass,” he reports to Morgan; he might have been a supporter of Arthur, but now they must protect the borders, and that’s more important. “We cannot block the Pass for good, of course, but this way we can hopefully slow down an upcoming attack. And I’ve summoned every archer from the neighbouring manors and positioned them along the Pass. There are places where they’ll be protected but have an excellent view at the invaders.”

“Where’s Lancelot?” asks Arthur.

“Still working on some more traps and reinforcements,” explains Lord Lucan. “He seems to understand a great deal about defences, that one.”

“He ought to; he used to serve as a hired sword,” Arthur looks at Merlin. “Any suggestions?”

Merlin shakes his head. “I need to see how many troops are there. _And_ the terrain. I must plan my tactic carefully, too.”

“You did well enough without foreplanning last time,” says Arthur dismissively and Merlin rolls his eyes, annoyed.

“That was a small band of brigands; nothing more than the bandits back home. The Saxons are a different matter.”

“He is right,” Lord Lucan sighs. “They are a tribe – well, actually _several tribes_ – of bloodthirsty barbarians. Unfortunately, they’re also numerous and well-trained at killing people.”

“We shall teach them a lesson,” says Morgan grimly. “They’ll learn that attacking our borders would do them no good.”

Lord Lucan, however, is less confident about that. “I hope so, my lady. Otherwise this will be the beginning of the end for us all.”

“We’ll see that it doesn’t happen,” promises Arthur. “Merlin, didn’t you want to take a look at the enemy and the terrain?”

“I did.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go and do it!”

“I don’t have to; scrying will suffice,” and Merlin’s eyes flash in gold as – with a murmured spell – he conjures up a large globe of light that seems to float just above his upturned palm.

Inside the globe they can see several fires and small figures moving between them. They look a lot like the troops of Caerleon: rough-faced, heavy-set men in fur tunics and sleeveless leather jerkins, their straw-blond hair tied in a topknot on their head. Their legs are wrapped, and there are tribal symbols painted on their temples and cheeks. Some of them wear necklaces made of animal fangs. They are armed with axes, long knives and heavy broadswords and carry large, round shields.

All of them seem to sleep in the open, near the fires. There’s only one small tent… well, more an awning like an actual tent, made of ox hides. The round shield on top of it depicts something that looks like the head of a black wolf on a red background.

“Does that sign say you anything?” asks Arthur and both Morgan and Lord Lucan nod.

“That is the emblem of Beowulf, the most powerful Saxon _thane_ ,” answers Lord Lucan. “We’ve had skirmishes with him time and again during King Uther’s rule. He might think that he’ll more easily succeed now, that the King is gone and the realm divided.”

“Not any longer,” says Morgan in quiet determination.

Lord Lucan gives her a doubtful look but chooses not to argue; which is, probably, a wise decision.

“Their numbers are considerable,” he says instead, “and their warriors are bigger, stronger and better trained than our people. There will be heavy losses; and that at a time when the realm has already bled out due to inner conflicts. I wish there were a way to avoid another massive bloodshed.”

“Perhaps there is,” says Arthur. “Are your people familiar with the concept of judgement by single combat?”

Both Morgan and Lord Lucan shake their head.

“Sometimes – for example by border disputes – two warlords can decide to solve the conflict by choosing a champion each, that will fight in their name,” explains Arthur. “Whichever champion wins the fight, his side is considered the winner. The terms are agreed upon _before_ the fight and both sides are honour-bound to fulfil their part in the agreement.”

“And what happens with the champion that loses?” asks Morgan.

“This is a battle to the death,” replies Arthur simply. “But do not worry, my lady; I do not intend to lose.”

“ _You_?” The protest comes from one of Morgan’s guards. Merlin recognizes him as Harwel, the one that wanted to kill _their_ Arthur, just to win Morgan’s favour. “I am Morgan’s champion!”

“You _were_ ,” corrects Morgan coolly. “You no longer are. You failed me once; I shan’t give you the chance to fail me again.. And if you dare to speak of me without my proper title again, I’ll have your insolent tongue cut out and shoved down your throat. I am your Queen and you shall give me respect if you know what is good for you!”

Harwell falls in fearful silence – he knows Morgan won’t hesitate to make her threat true – but there’s cold hatred in his eyes and Merlin makes a mental note to keep an eye on the man. Fortunately, Lancelot seems to agree with him.

Morgan and Lord Lucan find Arthur’s suggestion a sensible one. It would spare them heavy losses – _if_ they could persuade _Thane_ Beowulf to agree.

“What can we offer him?” asks Lord Lucan with little hope. “The Saxons live for battle and pillaging; our offer should be something that speaks to their greed.”

“He’ll name his son Cedric as champion,” replies Morgan with a shrug. “The boy is the best axeman in the whole Saxonia. I’ll offer to marry him if he wins and let him rule with me as my consort. That would be a good life for his guards, too; they’ll support the idea. And the elite guard of a _thane_ can have a deciding word in such things.”

“But what if he wins?” Lord Lucan gives Arthur an apologetic glance. “Are you truly willing to marry the boy?”

Morgan shrugs again. “Why not? He might be an unwashed barbarian, but he’s young and virile and a great warrior who’d bring with him a bunch of equally good warriors. I can always teach him manners later. Either way, I’ll win.”

This icy calculation might make other people back off. Arthur finds it reassuring. At least he can be sure that Morgan is being honest.

“And what if _I win_?” he asks, only half-joking.

“Then Beowulf is to forge a truce with us and to swear by his gods that he’ll protect our border from other Saxon tribes,” answers Morgan promptly; then she glances at Merlin and adds. “Perhaps we ought to give him a foretaste of what will happen if he breaks his words. Just a little demonstration.”

Merlin grins. “Would a dragon suffice? I can conjure up a very convincing one… or two.”

They laugh in understanding. Then Morgana turns back to Arthur.

“We’ll give your idea a try. We can still fight if they choose to be… unreasonable.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morning the Saxon camp wakes up to an unpleasant surprise: they are completely surrounded by the very people they planned to overrun and subjugate in one fell sweep. Not only are there local farmers and other village people, armed with makeshift weapons, but also a number of archers, safely outside their reach yet close enough to shoot them full of arrows.

And right in front of them, blocking their way to the Pass, the mounted guards wearing the Pendragon coat-of-arms are waiting, led by the shining figure of Queen Morgan in a chain mail flushed with bronze. She’s flanked by two warriors also wearing mail shirts and armed with masterfully forged swords.

 _Thane_ Beowulf is suitably impressed by this demonstration of power – and from a woman at that – but he’s not the least intimidated. His warriors are more numerous and better armed, and he knows it. Still, he honours the young Queen with a proper greeting; her courage deserves that much.

“Queen Morgan in person,” he says with an almost convincing bow. He’s a veritable bear of a man in his prime; even though he’s on foot and Morgan on horseback, he’s more than her equal, crown or no crown. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I could ask the same; if I did not know the answer already,” replies Morgan icily. “You’ve come to invade my realm and take my throne from me… if you can.”

“And you believe I cannot?” Beowulf clearly finds _that_ amusing.

“You can try, of course,” returns Morgan,” although it might prove harder than you think. I am not as defenceless as you perhaps assume.”

She gives a small hand sign, and Arthur half-hears Merlin murmur something behind his back in that harsh tongue he uses when casting a spell.

In the next moment three large dragons appear out of nowhere. The largest one, pitch black and gleaming like obsidian, floats behind Morgan, the other two, glowing like molten gold, behind Arthur and Lancelot, respectively.

The symbolic meaning is clear: House Pendragon stands united to stop any invaders.

The big, burly – and extremely superstitious – Saxon warriors began to murmur in concern. Their _thane_ , however, is not so easily intimidated.

“A petty display of magic toys,” says Beowulf, “but are your men warrior enough to try their swords against our axes?”

“They will, if there’s no other way,” replies Morgan.

“I’m afraid there isn’t,” counters Beowulf smugly.

“Then allow me to offer a different solution,” says Morgan. “I invoke the right of single combat. Two champions to settle this matter between us.”

Beowulf gives her a look full of suspicion. “And why should I agree with this? We could beat your pathetic little band easily.”

“Don’t be so certain about that,” she shoots back. “But even if you could, the price would be high. There's been bloodshed enough between you and my father already. This way many lives could be saved on both sides.”

Beowulf gives _that_ some thought. While it’s true that Saxon warriors live for the battle, getting tribute without a fight sounds good, too.

“What are your terms?” he finally asks.

Morgan hides her relief well; those who don’t know how desperate her situation is at home would never realize it.

“If my man wins, you must withdraw your troops and will be oath-bound to protect our border from other Saxon tribes,” she answers.

It is a bold demand, but Beowulf is certain of his victory.

“And if _my_ man wins?”

“Then I’ll marry your son and he shall rule on my side as my consort,” replies Morgana; and for the first time Beowulf is truly surprised… almost shocked. She is practically offering him the very thing he’s tried to conquer all his life: the entire realm of Uther Pendragon.

“You’re playing a bold game, Queen Morgan,” he says. “You should know that I’ll name my own son as our champion.”

“I do know it; although you might want to reconsider,” she replies coolly. “This is a battle to the death; and _my_ champion doesn’t intend to lose.”

Beowulf snorts. Whoever the young Queen’s champion might be, he’s sure his son will emerge from the fight victoriously.

“And who _is_ your champion?”

“I am,” the golden-haired warrior on Morgan’s side rides forward two steps. “I, Prince Arthur, son of King Uther Pendragon, will fight for Queen Morgan.”

Once again Beowulf is bewildered. It was known that Uther’s children have been struggling for supremacy for the better part of last year. That Arthur is calling himself Prince instead of King could only mean that they have come to an agreement, and the realm is united again. That isn’t good news for Saxonia.

On the other hand, if Cedric wins the fight, that wouldn’t only mean to have Uther’s son out of his way; it would also mean that they would conquer Uther’s realm without getting a great number of their warriors killed. His son would become King in all but the title and he, Beowulf, could lay hand on Uther’s treasures to make up to his warriors for the missed fight with rich gifts.

“I accept your terms,” he decides. “The fight will take place in one hour. That should be time enough for preparations.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
An hour later the troops of Morgan and the Saxon are still facing each other warily. Someone has drawn a circle in the centre of the gap between them: that is where the fight will take place.

 _Thane_ Beowulf’s champion – and also his firstborn son and heir – is an impressive sight. Though barely seventeen, he is a veritable giant already: tow-headed and blue-eyed, with heavy shoulders and arms and legs like tree-trunks. He is quite handsome for a barbarian, too, and his calculating look reveals a shrewd mind.

Clearly, he’s more than just muscle. He is someone who will be able to rule the tribe after his father with an iron fist.

For the _thane_ a crudely made camp chair is brought forth, from which to observe the fight. An old hag of tangled grey hair and deeply lined face – yet clad in colourful barbaric finery – accompanies him: the wise-woman of his household. At least by title; Merlin can feel at once that she’s more than that. Much more.

“Be careful,” he murmurs to Arthur. “I don’t think _Thane_ Beowulf is planning a clean fight. That’s a witch with him; a powerful one.”

“More powerful than you?” asks Arthur.

“No,” replies Merlin with quiet confidence.

“Then see that you even out the odds,” says the Prince and dismounts to enter the fighting ground. He is wearing his mail shirt and coif but no helm or breastplate, as a gesture to his opponent, whose only protection is a sleeveless leather jerkin.

Young Cedric is half a head taller than Arthur and is, surprisingly, wielding a broadsword instead of the axe with which he’s made a name himself among his own people. The Saxons must be very sure of their victory, thinks Merlin, eyeing the old hag warily. She hasn’t spotted him yet, and he doesn’t want to reveal himself by staring at her too intently, but he must keep a gimlet eye on her to counteract any foul play she might be planning.

 _Thane_ Beowulf gives the sign and the fight begins. It is obvious that while Cedric has the brute strength on his side, Arthur is the better swordsman by far; and his sword is far superior. Still, it is Cedric who knocks him to his knees eventually. Arthur rolls out from the blow and slices Cedric's cheek. Cedric checks for blood and howls, enraged. Mogan’s men applaud.

“This has gone on long enough,” says _Thane_ Beowulf to the hag on his left. “Time to turn the tide.”

Merlin cannot actually hear them, of course; not from his distance. Not through the noise of steel upon steel. But he can make an educated guess about the order given. Especially as the eyes of the hag glow briefly – and in the next moment Arthur's sword drops like lead behind him. He tries to pick it up again, yet cannot – as of it would hold the weight of a thousand ages.

Cedric sees his chance and swings, yet misses on the down sweep. Arthur punches Cedric in the face and but is caught on the upsweep of Cedric's sword. He cries out in pain and tries to lift his sword again – to no effect. 

“Merlin, I think you should do something,” murmurs Lancelot worriedly.

“Oh, don’t worry, I will,” replies Merlin with a grim smile. His eyes begin to glow and Cedric freezes mid-swing. Arthur leaves his sword and rams his shoulder into Cedric with enough strength to knock them both to the ground. Still, it is Cedric who gets up first and kicks Arthur over. The brutal kick knocks the breath from the Prince, and for a moment he just lies helplessly, while Cedric picks up his sword and raises it over his head.

“Merlin!” hisses Lancelot urgently. “ _Now_!”

He can hear Merlin’s harsh whispers, and the sword drops out of Cedric's hands into the ground behind him; he freezes. Arthur rolls up behind Cedric, grabs the sword and slices across the Saxon’s back. The young giant falls to his knees and Arthur kicks him down. The Prince is poised to strike… but then he looks up at his two companions at Morgan’s side. Merlin’s eyes are still glowing, his expression tense. Arthur looks down at his fallen enemy and runs the sword into the ground by Cedric's head. 

Morgan's troops burst out cheering.

While the Saxon wise-woman hurries down to check on Cedric’s injuries, _Thane_ Beowulf, too, heads to the fighting ground and approaches Arthur.

“You fought well, Arthur Pendragon,” he says; then he adds with a crooked smile. “And it seems you have a _witan_ protecting you that is far stronger than ours. We’ll be gone by midnight; and I shall keep my word given to your Queen.”

He holds out his hand for the traditional warrior’s greeting and Arthur clasps forearms with him. “You are an honourable man, _Thane_ Beowulf.”

“You sounds surprised,” replies Beowulf wryly. “You shouldn’t be. We are an oath-giving people, and our word is as binding for us and all the written contracts between your people… or more. Tell me something, though. Why have you spared my son?”

“Because I didn’t want to begin this agreement between our peoples with a death that would only lead to vengeance and to even more bloodshed,” replies Arthur simply, remembering how killing King Odin’s son in single combat led to long years of war and enmity between Cornwall and Camelot.

Beowulf gives him a long, thoughtful look. “You’re unlike anyone else I’ve ever seen, Arthur Pendragon,” he then says. “One day you’ll become a great King.”

With that, he turns away and orders his men to break up their camp and prepare to leave for home. Merlin looks from Arthur to Morgan and back to Arthur questioningly.

“Does this mean we’ve won?” he asks tentatively.

Arthur shakes his head in fond exasperation. “Only you, Merlin. Only you can save the day and then ask if we’ve won.”

“Well, I couldn’t be sure,” Merlin defends himself. “That was a very powerful spell that made you drop your sword!”

“Speaking of which,” says Arthur, “do you think you could, perhaps, you know, undo it? I happen to like that sword.”

For a moment Merlin seems a little uncertain. Then he rises to the challenge.

“There’s only one way to find out,” he replies, with a flash of gold in his eyes.


	12. A Less than Galmorous Escape

**CHAPTER 12 – A LESS THAN GLAMOROUS ESCAPE**

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After a highly uncomfortable night spent in the shape of a rat – a shape that makes travelling across unfamiliar terrain rather difficult – Merlin realizes with relief that the glamour the Lady Morgana has put on him is starting to wear off. Apparently, his own repelling spell _has_ worked… at least to a certain extent.

That doesn’t mean that turning back into a man would be easy. Far from it. Growing back to his regular size is every bit as painful as the abrupt shrinking was. The fact that he finds himself in the woods, stark naked, doesn’t help things. Neither does the other fact: that he has no idea _where_ in the woods he is.

Fortunately, he can see above the treetops the gleaming white turrets of Camelot from afar; and Camelot is where he has to return. _Arthur_ is in Camelot, and he needs to keep an eye on the boy King. The most important question is, though: how to get back to Camelot? The woods surrounding him are wild, untamed; he can see no paths whatsoever. And besides, he’s still naked.

The only thing he can do is to keep his eye on those white turrets and try making his way through the trees as well as he can – which isn’t very much. He tries a guiding spell but is still too weakened by his most recent ordeal to cast it properly. Thus he continues his way relying on his eyesight only… until his knees give in and he collapses on the cold forest floor.

He comes to due to someone carefully shaking his shoulder and talking to him in low, urgent tones. With gargantuan effort he opens his eyes… and looks directly in the concerned face of an old man with somewhat long-ish white hair and deep, observant eyes.

“You are the foreign sorcerer, aren’t you?” asks the old man. “The one who calls himself Merlin.”

Merlin tries not to panic. He doesn’t know who the old man is and how could he recognize him, but this is not good. Not good at all. He’ll never be able to hide among the townspeople if everyone can guess at once who he is.

The old man seems to know what he’s thinking because he smiles tiredly.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he says. “I have a vexed interest in helping you get home safely.”

“Why?” asks Merlin hoarsely. “Who are you?”

“I’m Gaius, the court physician,” replies the old man. “And I believe that the Merlin _I know_ must be somewhere where you’ve come from. He’s the only child of my niece – _and_ my apprentice – and I’d do anything in my might to get him back.”

Merlin nods in understanding. That makes sense.

“I heard that my counterpart here is just a boy,” he says. “I wish I knew how – and why – the exchange took place.”

“Oh, we know _that_ all right,” says the old man grimly. “Our main concern is now to undo it,” he rises from his crouch with creaking joints. “Come with me. I know a place where you’ll be safe; and I’ll explain things to you as well as I can.”

“Why are you helping me?” demands Merlin. “Wouldn’t you get in big trouble if the King learned about it?”

“Under normal circumstances I probably would,” agrees the old man. “However, the King seems to have changed his mind about you. Still, it’s better for you to stay out his sight. Come now. We must hurry up if we want to enter the lower town unnoticed.”

He takes off his hooded cloak and gives it to Merlin to cover himself. Then he picks up his basket that’s half-full of freshly picked herbs and heads off for Camelot, Merlin tagging after him.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The old man – Gaius, apparently – promises to take him to a modest little house in the lower town. It stands in a quiet little lane, he explains, near the apothecary’s workshop, and has a walled garden with a clogged-up well in it. The garden is overgrown with weeds, but some apple trees are still bearing fruit, and even the herb beds are somewhat useful.

“It belonged to a healer and herbalist once,” explains Gaius. “She fled Camelot when magic became outlawed twenty years ago, and the house’s been empty ever since.”

“Whom does it belong to now?” asks Merlin, because it would be… unfortunate if the owner came to look after their property and found _him_ in there.

“It’s mine,” replies Gaius. “Since the King has made me a free man of Camelot I can have property to my name, and I didn’t want Alice’s house fall into the hands of strangers. You can rest and recover here. But tell me first: how did you escape from the dungeons? Those chains were under a very strong spell!”

“And it took me all my strength to break them, too,” says Merlin darkly. “The nobleman who speaks for the King… the one with the greasy black hair…”

“Lord Agravaine?” The old man is clearly shocked. Merlin nods.

“That one. He had me brought to some cove in the woods… to a powerful sorceress who calls herself Lady Morgana.”

“ _Morgana_?” echoes Gaius in shocked disbelief. “Lord Agravaine is supporting _Morgana_?”

“It appears so, yes,” Merlin frowns. “Who is this Lord Agravaine anyway?”

“He is the brother of the late Queen Ygraine and thus Arthur’s uncle,” explains Gaius. “The last man I’d have expected to scheme with Morgana against Arthur.”

“Men’s loyalties are hard to understand sometimes,” says Merlin slowly. “Are you going to tell the King…?

After a long moment of consideration Gaius shakes his head.

“No; not _yet_ anyway. The King’s condition is… uncertain at best. Until your arrival we couldn’t even be sure that he’d survive. The shock was what woke him up from his heavy melancholy; but there’s no telling what another shock might do to his mind. I’ll consult Sir Leon and a few of he most faithful knights and we shall watch Lord Agravaine closely.”

“Would he be a threat to Arthur?”

“To _your_ Arthur? Hardly. He isn’t an obstacle in Morgana’s way to the throne. If anyone is in danger, it’s the King himself; and we need to keep him alive at least until we find a way to undo the exchange. We’ve already had a taste of ‘Queen’ Morgana’s reign… and believe me, you won’t want a repetition of _that_.”

He is deadly serious, and Merlin realizes that he needs to learn more if he wants to keep Arthur – and himself – alive.

“Tell me,” he demands and, with a heavy sigh, the old man begins to explain.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Leontes doesn’t truly know what to think about Merlin’s disappearance. He’s never truly known what to think about the sorcerer, period. There have always been too many hair-raising tales ranking around Merlin – beginning with the rumour that he’s supposedly six hundred years old (which Leontes seriously doubts), through Arthur’s questionable origins to the few things Leontes has witnessed with his own eyes.

“He must have had help,” he says to Arthur when they’re discussing things in the boy King’s lush chambers. “I know he’s supposed to be powerful, but those chains once held a dragon captive. A _dragon_! Even if he managed to break them with magic, he’d have been utterly exhausted afterwards. Too weak to leave on his own.”

“But who’d be mad enough to help him?” asks Arthur, bewildered. “I mean I’m relieved that he won’t be burned at the stake, but whoever freed him, they risked their life!”

“Perhaps somebody who hates King Uther and his war against magic enough to take such risks,” says Leontes grimly. “The Lady Morgana might still have her secret followers in the Citadel; and some of the neighbouring kings, too, have long-ongoing quarrels with the Pendragons. Which could be dangerous for you, too.”

“Why should it?” shrugs Arthur. “I’m not one of _these_ Pendragons.”

“Yea, but would any hired assassins know _that_?” asks Leontes. “Besides, King Uther has explained your sudden presence as a visit from a distant cousin; which means that all people will think that you _are_ one of these Pendragons.”

That makes Arthur think for a moment.

“Fortunately, I don’t have much to do with the court,” he then says. “The only people I meet are the knights and Master Geoffrey,” and he pulls a face because the lessons with the court genealogist are deadly boring.

Leontes, however, shakes his head. “That might change, soon. King Uther has declared to hold a feast honouring his son’s upcoming birthday. It’s going to be a merry celebration, with nobles of all five kingdoms invited. There’s no telling who might slip in with their entourage.”

“They’re having a feast without the Prince even being here?”

Leontes shrugs. “I’m sure they’ll explain it away somehow. Attack on the borders or something like that. In any case, you’ll be expected to participate as a member of the extended family, and _that_ might be dangerous. I’d sleep better if we had Merlin around to keep you safe.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When Gaius returns from his herb-collecting walk, the guards of the Citadel – and some of the knights, too – are still turning the town upside down for the missing sorcerer. King Uther was so enraged that he wanted to lead one of the search parties personally, Sir Leon tells him. He could only be persuaded not to do so when Lord Agravaine offered to go in his stead.

“Which would be of little use, seeing that Agravaine was the one who sprang him from the dungeons in the first place,” says Gaius dryly, and the First Knight of Camelot is rendered speechless for a moment, opening and closing his mouth several times without making a sound.

“But why?” he finally asks. “Does he want a pet sorcerer of his own or is he gone completely mad?”

“Worse,” replies Gaius grimly. “He’s working with Morgana.”

“With _Morgana_ ,” echoes Sir Leon after another long moment of mute shock. “ _Arthur_ ’s uncle works with _Morgana_. Why on earth would he do that?”

“Who knows?” says Gaius tiredly. “The men of House DeBois have always been… odd. Tristan blamed Uther for Queen Ygraine’s death and we both know how _that_ ended. Perhaps Agravaine blames Arthur for being born and causing his mother’s death in the process. They both doted on their sister and were against her marriage. And there were also rumours that Agravaine competed with Gorlois for Lady Vivienne”s hand in his youth. That would explain things.”

“Perhaps,” allows Sir Leon. “But are you really certain about this? Do you have any witnesses?”

Gaius nods. “I do. I’ve just found the escaped sorcerer in the forest; naked like on the day he was born and as weak as a kitten. He told me that Agravaine helped him escape and took him to Morgana… who then turned him into a rat in a fit of rage.”

“Morgana is hiding nearby?” asks Sir Leon unbelievingly; this is definitely a day of shocks for him. “Do you know where?”

Gaius shakes his head. “Afraid not. _This_ Merlin doesn’t know our woods; and he probably ran in circles as a rat until the glamour Morgana put on him began to wear off.”

“Not a very glamorous way to get away,” comments Sir Leon. “Where is he now?”

“In hiding,” as Sir Leon opens his mouth Gaius raises a hand. “No, I shan’t tell you. It’s better if you don’t know. I can reach him easily if needs must be, but for now he has to rest.”

“Are you sure we can trust him?” asks Sir Leon doubtlessly.

Gaius shrugs. “I’m sure he’ll do his best to protect _his_ Arthur. And I’m also sure that his best will be better than ours – _after_ he’s recovered. Other than that…”

He shrugs again. He doesn’t need to say more. Sir Leon knows what’s at stake.

“I’ll inform Gwaine, Percival and Elyan,” says the knight. “They are the ones we can trust unconditionally. The others I’ll tell to look out for possible assassins all the time. But what should we tell Lord Leontes?”

“The truth,” replies Gaius with a shrug. “He needs to know – and we may need somebody who knows _this_ Merlin better than we can ever hope.”

“Are we telling the brat, too?” asks Sir Leon.

Gaius shakes his head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea; it might make him careless. But in the end it is Lord Leontes’s decision.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Leontes happens to agree with them, and thus they leave Arthur in the dark concerning his mentor’s face; not that he’d care much at the moment. 

“Merlin has always come and gone as he pleased,” he explains Sir Gwaine, with whom he’s become closest from all the knights. “He’ll show up again when he thinks he’s needed.”

Besides, there are other things to capture the boy King’s attention. Noble visitors from the neighbouring kingdoms are beginning to flock to Camelot, to participate in Prince Arthur’s birthday celebration; among them a number of princesses and other gently bred ladies… more than he’s seen in his entire life. There aren’t many ladies where he comes from, save for his mother, his sister… and, of course, Guinevere.

Leontes watches the arrival of the guests with interest, too; although his interest is of a different nature. This is his chance to meet some _very_ important people, and he is looking forward to it. He wants to know all key players of the local game.

Of the five kingdoms that form a loose alliance under the leadership of Camelot, only one monarch chooses to appear in person: King Olaf, ruler of the Northern Kingdom, a realm further north even from the lands that – in Leontes’s world – belong to the Danes. The King himself does look like the Northmen Leontes knows from home, too: a heavy-set, barrel-chested, round-headed man in his vigorous prime, with short-cropped, straw-bond hair and icy blue eyes. He’s got something of a bull and – according to Sir Leon – he has a bull’s short temper to go with it as well.

“King Olaf is an exceptional warrior who’s led his kingdom in many wars,” adds the First Knight of Camelot. “He has repeatedly displayed immense fighting abilities with the mace, the quarterstaff _and_ the sword, often against knights half his age.”

“All Northern weapons,” comments Leontes, and Sir Leon nods.

“His family has ruled in the North for centuries. Too bad he has no son to follow him on the throne; and his only daughter isn’t exactly a _walkyrie_ , either.”

“Which one is that?” asks Leontes, and Sir Leon indicates a richly clad young girl who has the same pale hair and blue eyes as King Olaf.

The similarities end there, though. Lady Vivian, as the princess is addressed, is slim, pretty – and apparently quite spoiled. Not somebody who’d pick up a sword or would bother to learn how to rue a kingdom.

“Her mother died when she was but a babe on arms and Olaf is quite the overprotective father,” explains Sir Leon. “He’s spoiled the girl beyond reason; that’s why she’s turned out so demanding and rude. At least that’s what the Castle servants say, and I trust them in such matters.”

King Olaf and his daughter are whisked away to the guest wing – introductions will be made at the evening meal, explains Sir Leon – and another richly clad, beautiful blonde girl is riding up next, accompanied by an elderly lord.

“Princess Elena of Gawant,” says Sir Leon, “with her father, Lord Godwyn; an old friend and ally of our King. He was the Marshal of the royal Princess, Elena’s mother, and married her. When the Princess died in childbirth, Lord Godwyn became Regent until Elena reaches legal age. Not that it matters; Gawant is too small to be considered an independent kingdom. Which is why King Uther and Lord Godwyn wanted their children to marry. That way Gawant would have become part of Camelot, and Elena wouldn’t have been burdened by the concerns of the demesne.”

“But clearly, they didn’t marry,” comments Leontes. “What happened?”

“They weren’t interested in each other that way. Besides, Prince Arthur was already in love with Gwen, and the Princess had just been freed from the Sidhe that had possessed her since her birth.”

There are no longer any Sidhe in Leontes’s Britain – not that he’d know of, that is – but there still are legends about them, so he does have a vague idea what being possessed by one might be like. He feels unexpected sympathy for the gentle-faced Princess; especially after Sir Leon adds a few unsavoury details. 

He makes efforts to be particularly friendly and polite to her, and she seems a lot less shy in his company than she first appeared. Perhaps meeting someone who wasn’t a witness of her embarrassing behaviour (caused by the Sidhe inside her) makes it easier to be her true self.

Lord Godwyn, too, seems pleased by Leontes’s chivalrous manners towards his daughter, and soon the three of them are in a lively discussion about the current state of Albion. Princess Elena is clearly as interested and well-informed about state matters as her father; unlike Lady Vivian, she appears to be prepared to take over the ruling of Gawant one day.

“I wish I had somebody at my side as my mother had,” she says with disarming honesty. “I may beat any man in horse-racing, but I certainly can’t lead them in battle.”

“Is she truly such a good rider?” asks Leontes, once the Lord and the Princess of Gawant take their leave to ride up into the Citadel.

Sir Leon nods. “Oh, yes. I’ve never seen a woman – or a man for that matter – to be such a natural in the saddle.”

Their discussion is interrupted by the arrival of Princess Mithian of Nemeth who has come to represent her father, King Rodor. Another prospective bride for _this_ world’s Arthur, Sir Leon explains.

“And probably the best choice, as far as the good of Camelot is concerned,” he adds. “Not only is she wise, well-learned in the matters of state and compassionate, but also a great huntress, which means she and Arthur would have at least _something_ in common. And marrying her would mean the end of that long-ongoing quarrel between our realms about the disputed lands of Gedref.”

“That she’s beautiful, too, doesn’t hurt, either, I imagine,” says Leontes, observing the stunning, dark-haired Princess discreetly.

“She’d make an amazing Queen,” agrees Sir Leon. “I truly hope that Arthur comes to his senses and fulfils his duty towards the realm. With benefits like this it shouldn’t be _that_ hard.”

“ _If_ we manage to get him and the others back,” says darkly Sir Gwaine, who has been watching the new arrivals with them, and that pretty much kills the discussion for the time being.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The herb-mistress’s house – that now apparently belongs to the old court physician – proves to be the best possible hiding place for Merlin. The side street in which it stands is lined by the shops of small craftsmen; candle-makers, honey-makers, oil and spice merchants and pastry cooks, mostly. The shops of the food purveyors are more or less abandoned right now, due to the current food shortage, and even the shutters are bolted shut. In a tailor’s shop, however, three or four doors further down the street, the master tailor is sitting inside all day, cutting and sewing away on pieces of drab homespun cloth. The lower town is a district where the small people live, with little (if any) coin in their purses. Finer and more expensive fabrics than rough wool are likely not in great demand here.

When Merlin first appears, the tailor looks up hopefully. After a fleeting glance at his battered appearance, though, his hopes quickly deflate again and he loses interest in the newcomer. He is a small, bird-like man in his middle years, his back permanently bent from having crouched over his work for many years by now. He does not seem well-fed, and he clearly does not entertain high hopes that his situation would improve any time soon. It seems he has not had many customers lately.

Putting the tailor out of his mind, Merlin pulls back the latch and opens the heavy, iron-bound door of the small house. It opens with a loud creak, letting the sunlight stream into the dim interior, dancing on the dust in the air. The inside of the house consists of a single room with two rather small windows left and right of the door and a low roof, supported by a sturdy, vertical oak beam in the middle. It is a fairly bleak room, its stone walls not covered with plaster; although they are lined with wooden shelves that reach from the floor to the ceiling. On some of the shelves, mortars and bottles and small clay pots stand between bouquets of drying herbs, even the odd book on herbal medicine. Just as the herb-mistress has left them when she had had to flee Camelot again a few weeks earlier.

The furniture, too, is sparse at best. There are two sturdy wooden tables; one right opposite the door, with two high-backed chairs that seem to have seen better days, the other one, clearly a work bench, on the right side, under the larger window. On the same side stands a bed, but further into the room, beyond the central beam. It is a rather simple bed, looking almost like a wooden box, but at least it has been suitably provided with pillows and blankets and bedlinens… all of which the herb-mistress had been forced to leave behind.

Two large, iron-bound chests stand in the farthest corners. A quick look inside reveals more bedding and even towels in one and some clothes in the other one. All of it clearly need a thorough airing, but at least they were clean, and in the end, they can be used – well, the bedding and the towels anyway. For someone who has literally nothing, save the clothes on his back – and even those were in really bad shape – it is a blessing.

A small door opposite the entrance leads into the tiny, walled garden behind the house; The herb-mistress has once clearly used it to grow her own herbs. The garden is now just a wild patch of uncontrollable growth, but the small wash-house and the privy leaning against the wall can still be used – and it has even its own stone well in the middle of the long-gone beets. Granted, one without a pump, where the bucket has to be pulled up by hand, but it hasn’t been any different back in Britain. Merlin is used to such things.

In truth, the little house offers all the meagre comfort he used to have in his old home – and then some. It is also reasonably close to his pupil. He is certain that he will do just fine here, until the chance to return to Britain offers itself.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The number of refugees that fled to Camelot recently to escape war and famine makes it easy for Merlin to blend in. He doesn’t look all that different from the penniless common folk; and besides, he only leaves the house once a day to go to one of the spots where food is being distributed to the poor. He never goes to the same spot twice in a row; that helps remaining unnoticed.

It is a quiet, solitary life, but he is content with what he has… for now. Until he can find a way to go back to his own world and take Arthur with him. Until then, he can rest and heal, both of which he sorely needs.

The more surprised he is when one day he goes out for his usual food run and finds the town buzzing with excitement. The square in front of the palace is a hive of activity. A caravan of colourful carts is being unloaded by acrobats, dancers, jugglers, strong men, and jesters. An acrobat back flips into her partner's arms. Jugglers practice their routine, sending batons high into the air.

“What is going on?” he asks one of the onlookers; by her clothes some kind of castle servant.

The woman gives him a look full of disbelief. “Haven’t you heard it being cried from the squares? The King is holding a feast in honour of Prince Arthur’s birthday. Young ladies from the other kingdoms have already begun to arrive; it’s said the King is determined to get his son married to a proper princess, sooner rather than later.”

 _That would be hard to achieve, seeing that your Prince is probably trying to fend off Morgan’s assassins right now_ , Merlin thinks wryly. Could it be possible that the people of Camelot don’t even know that _their_ Arthur is missing?

He thanks the woman, picks up his food and returns to his refuge to consider the possible ramifications.

It comes as no surprise when later in the day the old court physician shows up on his doorstep to discuss things with him. His news are mildly disturbing.

“The King is planning to introduce your Arthur to the court as a distant cousin who just happens to bear the same name as his son,” Gaius tells him. “Officially our Arthur had to go to settle an old border dispute somewhere that is comfortably far from here so that no-one can question if it’s true. Your King, however, might be in danger.”

“How that?”

“We’ve recently learned that the circus hired to entertain the party guests has come from Cornwall, Odin’s kingdom,” explains Gaius. “King Odin holds an old grudge against Prince Arthur because of the death of his son. _If_ he’s hired an assassin, which wouldn’t be the first time, that man won’t know the Prince by sight. He might go for _your_ Arthur, because of the name and because he’s been told to look for a blond, blue-eyed young man.”

Merlin freezes. “I can’t allow Arthur to be killed!”

“Then you must come to the castle with me and keep an eye on him,” says Gaius. “I’m too old and too slow to deal with assassins.”

“I can’t!” protests Merlin, frustrated. “Lord Agravaine would recognize me; and so would some of the guards.”

“Not if we get you other clothes and a decent bath,” says Gaius. “A proper shave won’t harm, either. We can use walnut oil to make your skin look darker, and if anyone asks, I’ll tell them you’re a travelling herb-master from al-Andalus. Which will also explain your strange way to speak. No-one expects a Saracen to speak the same way we do; and Zulfiya will see that you _look_ like one.”


	13. The Prince Consort

On the other side of the mirror Queen Morgan’s rule is slowly stabilizing. She proves to be good Queen (now that she has what she always wanted, there’s no longer any need for scheming and backstabbing), and even Arthur’s former supporters are slowly beginning to drift over to her side.

The fact that her new champion has managed to turn away the Saxon threat without any loss of lives does help, of course, and so does Merlin’s demonstration of power, the like of which no-one has seen in Britain for uncounted centuries.

Not _everyone_ has turned coat, of course. Sir Kay still remains steadfast in his rejection of the Queen, and after the almost-battle with the Saxons, he leaves for home, taking the dowager Queen with him. Igraine is still greatly weakened and will never truly recover, but one of the distant nunneries has offered her – _and_ Sybil – a cell in which to live, until their convent is rebuilt, and Igraine is determined to take the veil as soon as that happens.

Guinevere is still trying to fit in… with little success. Her affair with Lancelot is burning out quickly, her cousin Bridget has chosen to follow Sir Kay (and eventually marry him, most likely), her father is dead, both her husband and her not-so-secret lover, the dethroned boy King, gone. She is a very lonely and unhappy woman – not that anyone would care. Leontes was – actually, still _is_ – well-loved among the people, and too many have learned about her adultery. She cannot expect much sympathy.

“She ought to have her marriage annulled and return to her father’s manor,” says Morgan mercilessly. “I’m certain that under the circumstances the Archbishop would be willing to release her from her vows. More so if he wants to remain in the good graces of the Throne. Unless she chooses to take the veil, too, of course.”

“You’d support her request to dissolve the marriage?” asks Arthur in surprise.

Morgan shrugs, her eyes cold and slightly hostile.

“She was the whore of the former King. I want her out of my court. Sitting in her father’s manor, either on her own or married to someone else – preferably someone unimportant – she won’t be an obstacle. Neither would she be in a convent. Either way, I’ll benefit from her absence,” she gives Arthur a shrewd look. “Unless _you_ are interested in her?”

“He has his own Guinevere back home,” says Lancelot with quiet pain in his voice. Despite everything he still isn’t completely over Gwen and probably never will.

“Really?” asks Morgan with interest. “Is she anything like our Guinevere?”

“No,” replies Arthur slowly. “No, she’s completely different: a kind, simple yet brave girl – the daughter of a blacksmith.”

“And you’re planning to make _her_ your Queen?” It sounds a little rude, but Morgan is clearly flabbergasted.

Arthur frowns. “Why not? If I’m King, I can marry whom I want, can’t I?”

“No, you cannot,” replies Morgan sternly. “You must marry in a manner of which your realm benefits most? Somebody of your own rank and status.”

“You sound like my father,” mutters Arthur angrily.

“Your father seems to be a wise man; and a wise King,” returns Morgan sharply. “Romantic nonsense is fort he minstrels and the stupid crowd that listens to their insipid ballads; those who rule entire realms need to choose their consort with responsibility.”

“And whom have _you_ chosen in such a responsible manner?” shoots back Arthur. “I don’t see a consort at _your_ side, either.”

“Not yet,” agrees Morgan calmly. “But I’ve already chosen; and I’ve chosen _you_.”

For a moment, the three displaced young men from Camelot are so shocked that they forget to breathe.

“ _Me_ ,” Arthur finally says, when he is capable of speaking again. “You want _me_ to be your consort. Aren’t you forgetting a few things? Like the fact that I don’t belong here and want to go home as soon as possible? Or the fact that my heart belongs to someone else?”

“I’m not interested in your heart,” says Morgan bluntly, “But I could use your support. _And_ I need an heir. Otherwise I cannot establish my rule for good. A child that is a Pendragon on both sides would be excellent to ensure legal succession.”

“But wouldn’t that be, I don’t know, incest or something?” asks Merlin.

Morgan shakes her head. “We aren’t truly brother and sister. We aren’t even related at all.”

“Yeah, but do your subjects know that?”

“Everybody at the court knows; and what our enemies think, I really don’t care.”

“You are insane,” says Arthur. “I won’t sire a child for dynastic purposes, just to abandon it when we get home, leaving it behind in the hands of complete strangers.”

“You wouldn’t leave it behind alone,” says Lancelot quietly. “I’ll not go back with you; it will be better so, for both of us. And since I’ll stay here, I can – and _will_ \- protect your child till my last breath. This I swear you by my sword and by my honour.”

“Lancelot!” cries out Merlin anxiously. “You cannot…”

“I can and I will,” interrupts Lancelot. “If I had any hope to win Gwen’s love, I might reconsider. But we both know that I haven’t.” This way I won’t have top watch her being happy with someone else, and Queen Morgan will have a champion to replace you, once you return home… _if_ you’ll accept my sword, my lady,” he adds with a courteous half-bow in Morgan’s direction.

“You should,” comments Arthur. “There isn’t a better sword – _or_ a better swordsman – in the Five Kingdoms of Albion.”

“I am not foolish enough to reject such an offer,” says Morgan. “But I still need a consort, at least for a while; and I still need an heir. Are _you_ fool enough to reject my offer?”

Arthur looks at his friends helplessly. Lancelot shrugs; he already has made his choice, but he’s kind enough to offer his advice.

“A child that is a Pendragon on both sides and yet not born of incest might indeed secure legal succession and stabilize the kingdom,” he says.

“Besides,” adds Merlin unhappily, “I believe we shall have to wait at least six months before we can try getting home. Actually, a whole year would be better, as Samhain would be our best choice to succeed; when the veil between worlds is the weakest.”

“We can’t stay here a whole year!” protests Arthur. “A lot of things can happen at home in a year! Morgause might be dead, but Morgana is still out there, and my father is in no shape to hold the realm together.”

“That’s why I said six months,” points out Merlin. “Beltane is our other reasonable choice.”

“But what am I supposed to do here for half a year?” asks Arthur, slightly desperate, and Merlin coughs discreetly.

“I’m sure Queen Morgan will have a few ideas.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After several days of brooding Arthur finally agrees to accept Queen Morgan’s offer and is officially introduced at court as the Queen’s consort. Fortunately, almost everyone in Britain knows _their_ Arthur by now and can clearly see that the new consort is a vastly different man. Unknowingly, they use the same explanation as King Uther back home: that Arthur is a distant cousin who just happens to have the same name; and that he used to live in a far-away country until now. That will also serve to explain his departure, should they ever manage to get home.

During the same feast Lancelot is established as the Queen’s new champion, and people who have seen him fight at Bardon Pass are content with the choice; even though they used to be the boy King’s supporters. His newly minted status eases a bit the general hostility towards Guinevere, since it is known that they are lovers. As expected, the Archbishop sends the decree in which he declares Guinevere’s marriage to Leontes nullified in no time. She is a free woman now who can freely choose her own way.

If only she knew _what_ to choose.

After the feast comes the bedding of the Queen, which is a somewhat awkward affair, seeing that it requires witnesses, Morgan no longer being a virgin. She chooses Lord Lucan to be one of them; and the abbess of the convent where Sybil and Igraine are living as the other one. The latter is a necessary witness for the Archbishop himself, so that there cannot be any doubt of the parentage of any child she might conceive. Morgan doesn’t truly mind. After all, she let King Lot take her in front of his entire court; she isn’t one who’d be easily embarrassed.

Arthur feels a bit more awkward about the situation, true. But witnesses at royal beddings are a practice known at home, too, unless the bride has been untouched before, in which case the bloodied bed-sheets count as proof enough, so he arranges himself. 

Afterwards he admits to Lancelot that Queen Morgan’s skills in lovemaking are an unexpected side benefit. Lancelot refrains from pointing out that he has practically cheated on Gwen by accepting the Queen’s offer. After all, _he_ hasn’t been exactly faithful to his beloved when beginning his affair with _this_ world’s Guinevere.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The only one still uncomfortable with the situation is Merlin. As much as he’s respected and even admired for his powers at Morgan’s court, he feels like a fish out of water in this world so void of true magic. ( _And_ he still can’t help seeing Morgan and Arthur’s relationship as some kind of incest, but that’s another matter entirely.)

“I am the only one who has nothing to do here,” he complains. “Granted, I don’t have to hide my powers here, but what good does it do for me? Back home, I could feel the throbbing of magic in _everything_ , from the running waters to the growing threes and the song of stones. Here… here everything feels _dead_. Like an empty house where not even echoes live anymore.”

“Because of the lack of magic?” asks Lancelot, and Merlin nods.

“The only place that doesn’t feel completely dead is Camelot,” he says, “I could feel some faint echoes there; but we were too busy with other things at the time.”

“Camelot was once the heart of the old, heathen kingdom,” says Queen Morgan thoughtfully. “Even long thereafter, it was called the Faerie Castle. Do you believe that its magic could be rekindled?”

“I cannot tell,” admits Merlin,” but I’d like to try; more so as there might be the best place to get us home eventually. If you allow me, my lady, I’d like to return there before the onset of winter; and I’d like to take Vivian with me.”

“ _Vivian_?” echoes Morgan in surprise. “What for?”

“As a Dragonlord, my true strength lies in air and fire,” explains Merlin. “But to rekindle magic where it’s nearly extinct, I need the power of all elements. The mark Vivian bears contains some powerful runes of earth and waters. _She_ may not be able to use them, true; but _I might_.”

He isn’t about to reveal that he also intends to wake up Vivian’s latent magical powers. No need to make the Queen envious. Vivian seems to understand that because she gives him a quick, grateful glance.

One that, fortunately, goes unnoticed by the Queen. Morgan’s mind is still occupied by what she’s just learned.

“Interesting,” she says. “I never heard of powers being bound to certain elements, but it makes sense. By all means, take her with you. She knows the place like the back of her hand; and she’s very reliable.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
With that last, slightly condescending comment they’re dismissed, and Merlin can begin organizing their journey. That means horses and supplies mostly, with which Vivian can help – in fact, she is the one to do most of the preparations. The only thing Merlin packs into his saddlebag is an old, tattered book he was given by Sir Kay as a farewell gift.

Actually, Sir Kay encouraged him to take _any_ books he wanted from his late father’s library. Merlin chose this particular tome because it contains the oldest known legends concerning Camelot, as well as some fascinating illustrations and even a list of ancient spells that may or may not work. Still, the book could prove useful; and in case they’ll find a way home – which he very much hopes – he’s planning to leave it behind for Vivian.

Arthur and Lancelot aren’t happy to see him leave but don’t even try to talk him out of the idea; which clearly shows how much things have changed between them. At least between Merlin and _Arthur_ , as Lancelot has accepted who – and _what_ – he is from the very beginning; and once again, Merlin briefly mourns the old closeness to the Prince that is now gone.

He knows they cannot go back to that which they used to be. He accepts it, even if it hurts. His destiny isn’t to be Arthur’s _friend_ but to help him become the once and future King he is meant to be. For that, however, they must find the way back to _their_ Albion; and Camelot, _this_ world’s Camelot, might be their best chance to do so.

Therefore he must go, and Vivian must go with him, for her powers are of water and earth, and the only known holy well is in Camelot; either within the ruin itself or near it. They _will_ need a holy well to wake up Vivian’s powers – assuming they _can_ do it. There are no guarantees, and they both know that.

“Is it true that a woman born to a family of magic users has to sacrifice their maidenhood to come into her powers?” asks Vivian when they are safely out of everyone’s earshot.

Merlin gives her a bewildered look. “I’ve never heard of that. People are either born with magic or they are not. Of course, if they aren’t, they might use… errr… drastic methods while learning sorcery. I don’t believe such sacrifice would be needed, though. You have nothing to worry about.”

“No, I haven’t,” she replies quietly. “Did you think a serving wench could remain untouched in Castle Pendragon during King Uther’s reign? Less so one whose ancestors were brought here as slaves?”

It takes Merlin a moment to understand; and when he does, his eyes darken in anger.

“I am sorry,” he says. “This is _wrong._ ”

Vivian shrugs. “It is what it is. We all have learned to live with it. At least now that Morgan wears the crown, we are better protected. It still happens, of course, but at least now the men who force themselves upon us are punished,” she looks up curiously. “Is it different where you come from?”

“It happens,” he admits,” but it is heavily frowned upon. King Uther does have his faults – his rabid hatred towards magic being the worst of those – but he tries to protect those who serve him. Which doesn’t mean that we don’t get put into the stocks or even flogged,” he adds with a grim smile, “but he does not allow the nobles to prey on his servants.”

“What will happen to you when you return, though?” she asks. “You cannot go back being Prince Arthur’s manservant, can you? Now that he knows what you’re capable of… and that you’ve been hiding it from him for years, sound though your reasons might have been.”

“I don’t know,” confesses Merlin. “Were the King still his own self, I’d have to fear for my life; I’d probably have to leave Camelot and go into hiding.”

“But now your Prince is the regent,” says Vivian. “He won’t have you executed – or would he?”

“I hope not,” replies Merlin. “But he cannot change the law as long as he isn’t King; and while he’s slightly more… accepting than his father, it won’t be easy for him to change his mind. He’s been taught all his life that magic is evil and magic users are the mortal enemies of Camelot. And the things Morgana has done didn’t help change his mind.”

“And you still want to get home,” she says.

It isn’t a question, but Merlin nods nonetheless. “Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my _home_. I want to see my mother again; and Gaius, my mentor. _And_ I have to help Arthur build a new, better, united Albion. It is my destiny.”

“Says who?”

“A great, ancient dragon with the annoying habit of speaking in riddles,” Merlin smiles. “His name is Kilgarrah, and he is the most infuriating creature I’ve ever met; well, right after Arthur. But he is the last of the Great Dragons and I am the last Dragonlord, so we have to arrange ourselves. He was the friend and ally of my father, after all. It’s kind of family obligation.”

“Just as my obligation is to support Morgan,” says Vivian. “All my female ancestors have served the family of Queen Anna, Morgan’s mother. It’s a shame that we must part ways, soon. You are the first and only person who has ever truly understood me. And that’s why I want you to try waking up my powers. That way I’ll always have something of you with me.”

And she leans over and kisses him on the cheek.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Do you believe that Merlin might find a way back home?” asks Arthur doubtfully.

He and Lancelot have just finished their daily training with Morgan’s men-at-arms and are now cleaning up in the communal washroom of the practice field.

Lancelot shrugs. “If anyone, he will. I’ve seen a few times what he’s capable of; and so have you, by now,” he pauses. “Speaking of which, what are you planning to do with him when you get back? _If_ you get back, that is.”

“I certainly hope that we will,” says Arthur a little indignantly. “Not that I’m complaining about my life here, but this isn’t _home_. Not the place where I’m truly needed.”

“And it chafes that you have to play second fiddle to Morgan,” grins Lancelot; it is not a question but Arthur reluctantly nods anyway.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do about Merlin,” he then picks up the original thread. “Not that I could do anything with him, obviously. Nothing that he doesn’t want to do. I’m still getting used to the thought that he’s this all-powerful sorcerer now…”

“Warlock,” corrects Lancelot, “and it isn’t something he is now. It’s what he’s always been.”

Arthur waves off his objection. “Whatever. It’s not easy to accept and no, I have no idea how to deal with it once we are back home.”

“You could start with a little respect,” suggests Lancelot. “In over three years he has done his level best to protect you; quite successfully, I may add. Without him, you’d be dead many times over by now. That deserves a little gratitude, if nothing else. Besides, he could be a powerful ally, once you take over the throne.”

“Ah, but will be truly an ally?” mutters Arthur darkly. The fact that Merlin kept all this hidden from him for years still rankles, even though, intellectually, he understands the reasons.

Lancelot gives him a look full of disbelief. “Were you hit on the head during practice? Merlin is loyal to the fault; everything he’s done in all these years he did for you!”

“Perhaps,” allows Arthur. “But I can’t go back pretending he’s my idiot manservant.”

Lancelot smiles. “He _is_ your manservant, though, as far as anyone else is concerned. At least as long as your father lives. You don’t have to _treat_ him like an idiot, however.”

“I don’t know how to treat him,” confesses Arthur. “I’d like to pretend that nothing has changed between us, but we both know that would be a lie.”

“You can always build something _new_ ; something even better,” points out Lancelot. “And you should begin with that while you are still here, far from the spying eyes of the court.”

To that Arthur has no answer; not yet. They finish cleaning up and start heading back to the castle when Lancelot slows down.

“We’re being followed,” he murmurs. “By at least three or four men, I think.”

“How do you know?” As much as he tries, Arthur cannot hear anything suspicious.

“Instinct,” replies Lancelot. “When you travel the wilderness alone for as long as I have, you develop a sense for it. Have your sword ready and let’s hope they aren’t planning to shoot us in the back with arrows.

Which their followers are clearly not, for barely has Lancelot finished the sentence when eight men are falling over them from all directions. This is not a new situation for them in itself, but without wearing a mail shirt can early become dangerous. Arthur and Lancelot move to stand back to back, which is the best way of defence if one’s outnumbered, and only then ha the Prince a chance to take a look at their attackers.

He recognizes their leader at once: it is Harwel, Morgan’s discarded champion, known to have been lusting for his Queen since Morgan’s homecoming a year or so ago. The others must be his friends, then; Arthur remembers having seen at least one of them at Bardon Pass. 

This is personal, then; an attack born of envy and jealousy. Harwel won’t stoop until one of them is dead. And he’s brought reinforcements to make sure that _Arthur_ would be the one dying. Arthur, who has got everything _he_ always wanted: a place on Morgan’s side and in her bed.

But this isn’t the hot-headed, inexperienced boy King he’s fighting now, and he soon realizes that. They may have the _numbers_ , but the two foreign warriors have the skill, the training and the experience; _and_ they’re used to fight when vastly outnumbered. Harwel’s men aren’t bad with the sword but they cannot compare themselves with Morgause’s undead army, to name just one enemy Arthur and Lancelot had to face in recent years.

“Try to disarm, not to kill,” says Arthur through gritted teeth. “Morgan would hardly appreciate if we slaughtered a whole unit of her guards.”

Lancelot nods his understanding but it soon becomes clear that hey might not have a choice; for Harwel and his men are clearly out to kill them. They have to switch their positions back and forth to keep their attackers at bay, while those are trying to get them from the side where they are the most vulnerable, so they have to watch out in several directions at the same time, which doesn’t make things easier.

“Duck!” hisses Arthur and Lancelot obeys without thinking, avoiding a hit at his head by a hair’s breadth.

The trick works, though. The swords of at least four attackers clash against each other, enabling Arthur to get inside Harwel’s guard enough to nick him in the right shoulder. At the same time Lancelot parries a stroke from one of the men while kicking out at another one, sending him reeling into the arms of his closest mates.

Blood is spurting from Harwel’s shoulder, but it doesn’t stop him. He switches the sword into his other hand, albeit it is obvious that he isn’t used to wielding it with his left, and attacks Arthur again like a madman, throwing all caution in the wind. The others are still striving to regain their balance, and Lancelot lungs at another one, knocking him to the ground, thereby opening up a space that allows him to break out of the circle. He slams the pommel of his sword down onto his opponent’s skull, rendering him unconscious. Then he jumps over the prone body and attacks from the side, hoping to draw the men still standing and fighting away from Arthur’s position.

Arthur knows that he has to take out Harwel as quickly as possible, despite his original plan not to kill anyone. An opponent who isn’t concerned about their own life, only about killing, is far more dangerous than a sane one; and Harwel is clearly beyond thinking at the moment. He attacks with unexpected ferocity and with murder in his eyes.

His careless action, however, enables Arthur to slip under his guard (seeing that he doesn’t _have_ any right now) and slash him in the thigh. He apparently manages to nick a major blood vessel; the other attackers stop and gasp in dismay at the sight of the blood puddling on the floor. Harwel drops to the ground and tries to stop the bleeding with his mostly useless right hand when the tip of Arthur’s sword touches his unprotected throat.

“Do you yield?” asks Arthur coldly.

Instead of answering Harwel tries to ram his sword upward into Arthur’s belly. He’s far less skilled with his left hand, though, not to mention already weakened by the blood loss, and the weapon slides off harmlessly from Arthur’s leather jerkin.

“I take that as a no,” says Arthur, his voice ice cold and his eyes dark and terrible all of a sudden. “Your choice.”

He swings his sword around and beheads Harwel with one fell sweep. Then he turns to the remaining men with the same darkness in his eyes. “So, who’s next?”

There’s no-one else who would dare to face him. The men turn on their heels and flee, leaving their unconscious mate behind. Arthur calms visibly and looks down at Harwel’s still copiously bleeding boy in disgust.

“Idiot,” he mutters angrily. “Why did you make me kill you?”

“He was obsessed,” offers Lancelot. “It was him or you; he left you no choice.”

Arthur sighs and uses the discarded cloak of one of the attackers to clean his sword.

“I know. I’m just sick and tired of killing people without a sound reason.”

“Well, he did try to kill you; in my book that is reason enough,” says Lancelot. “And I believe Queen Morgan will see it so, too.”

“She has already discarded Harwel, so I don’t think she would care much,” shrugs Arthur. “She doesn’t strike me as a person who would be upset by the loss of anyone – _including_ me,” he looks down at the still unconscious attacker. “Let’s take this fool back to the Castle with us. I’m sure our tender-hearted Queen will have the means to get the names of the others from him. If only to show how generous she can be when it isn’t _her_ life at stake.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He is right, of course. Morgan takes the news about Harwel’s death without as much as blinking. She knows he would have tried to kill her, too, eventually, since he couldn’t have her. As Lancelot said, he was obsessed and couldn’t bear the thought of her taking another man into her bed.

And yes, she does show herself merciful, once she has the names of all attackers. She sternly – and publicly – reprimands them, of course, and has them whipped, but that is all. They are even allowed to remain in her service, which is the most important part of the whole affair. The whip marks will fade, yet they will be able to keep feeding their families. And Arthur will leave sooner or later anyway.

Or so he hopes. _If_ Merlin manages to find a way home.


	14. A Wicked Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It appears that I forgot to post the real Chapter 13 last week. Please go back and read that first. Thanks, and my apologies for the oversight.

Back in Camelot, the older Merlin agrees to Gaius’s suggestion because really, what other choice does he have if he wants to protect the boy King from any potential assassins sent to kill the _other_ Arthur? They turn to the apothecary’s apprentice for help, and the young Saracen girl is more than willing to do so. Apparently, Gaius is an old friend of his family as well as her sometimes mentor. She does a great job turning Merlin into somebody he in truth is _not_.

And so, on the evening of the big feast, he finds himself walking up to the Citadel, wearing outlandish clothes that used to belong the Zulfiya’s late father: a long, dark blue djellaba under a light brown caftan and a blue headcloth, held in place by a silver circlet. His skin looks olive brown, his stubble has been shaved off but for a thin line seaming his jaw, and _that_ has been coloured black. Zulfiya has also painted his thinned eyebrows black and generously rimmed his eyes with kohl. 

It is unlikely that anyone, even Arthur or Leontes, would recognize him in this foreign disguise. But he decides to remain cautious nonetheless.

The Banquet Hall of the Citadel is packed. Knights and courtiers are tucking into a feast. The Hall is filled with entertainment. Two acrobats have set up a circular board, divided into brightly coloured segments. A tall, somewhat shrew-faced man the others call the Gleeman is throwing knives at the board with frightening accuracy, while the other acrobats perform their various tricks. Everyone's enjoying the show, wowed by the skills of the performers. Even the King seems to be in good spirits, smiling and raising his goblet at his guests.

Merlin – or Youssef ibn Hazim, as he is introduced – gets a seat at one of the lower tables, where Gaius and other valued castle servants are sitting. From there, he has a good view at the High Table, where Arthur is seated on King Uther’s left, with Lord Agravaine on the King’s right. Three beautiful young women are seated left and right from them: two blondes and a brunette; by their rich garment they must be princesses or, at the very least, high-born ladies.

“The prospective brides?” asks Merlin, and Gaius nods, explaining briefly who the young ladies are, starting with the one sitting right next to Arthur.

“Lady Vivian is the only daughter of King Olaf. She’s been hit by a love spell, the poor girl, and cannot get over her infatuation with Arthur. I mean _our_ Arthur,” Gaius corrects himself. “The old spell books say that only a kiss from her true love could lift the spell; but clearly, she hasn’t found that love yet.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Well, it seemed to work for Arthur. Not that he’ll be able to marry Guinevere; not unless he chooses to defy his father and give up his throne, but he’s too devoted to his duties towards Camelot to do so. At least I _hope_ he is. I love our Gwen like a daughter, but the future King cannot marry the daughter of a blacksmith. Even if he’s made her brother a knight,” the old man indicates with his eyes a handsome, dark-skinned knight at one of the higher tables.

At the High Table Merlin soon spots Leontes as well, sitting between a gentle-faced, blonde lady whom Gaius identifies as Princess Elena of Gawant and her father, the elderly Lord Godwyn. Leontes is wearing a beautifully embroidered, deep burgundy red, brocaded tunic, as it behoves his rank and his status as the King’s champion. _Where_ he might have got it from is another question; but he seems to have found his place in this foreign court.

Whether that is good for Arthur or not cannot be told just yet. Leontes is loyal to the fault, but Arthur _has_ slept with his bride at the very morning of their wedding, and back home he didn’t seem to easily forget that; or forgive.

Arthur, for his part, appears to be very smitten with King Olaf’s daughter, and Merlin feels the tension of an upcoming headache beginning to gather behind his eyes. Hasn’t the brat King learned from the disaster with Guinevere? The last thing they needed was to enrage the girl’s father for a quick romp in the hay!

“Oh, I believe Olaf would be grateful if anyone could heal his daughter from her so-called love for Arthur,” says Gaius with a smile, and Merlin realizes he’s been talking to himself loud enough for the old man to hear.

“I’d still prefer if our King didn’t end up dead for deflowering the Princess,” he mutters angrily.

“In that case you can relax; _our_ Prince has already taken care of that while under the love spell, although she probably had other lovers before him,” Gaius laughs quietly. “Apparently, Olaf attacked one of them with a knife somewhere in the past. In any case, it nearly led to war between the Northern Realm and Camelot; which was exactly what King Alined of Deorham hired his trickster for.”

For a moment Merlin tries to digest the considerable amount of trivia so unceremoniously dropped into his lap.

“It seems that your world isn’t exactly the land of the blessed, either,” he then says, and Gaius sighs.

“True enough. Uther is a good king; a strong king who’s brought nearly twenty years of peace and prosperity to Camelot. But the price was high, and his private war against magic has caused a great deal of resentment; resentment that people who would love to wring the throne from Arthur use against him at great effect.”

“So his daughter had enough support to grab the crown.”

It is not a question. By listening to the people in the lower town, Merlin has learned enough about Lady Morgana’s reign to see the parallels. But Gaius shakes his head.

“She never had true support. All those so-called allies of her _used_ her to conquer Camelot for themselves. She just never saw it.”

“But she _was_ crowned Queen of Camelot, wasn’t she?”

“She was. But a bastard child only has legal claim to the throne when their father acknowledges them. Uther never acknowledged Morgana. He loved her, doted on her, yes, but never legally acknowledged her as a daughter; as a Pendragon. By the laws of Camelot she’s still Lady Gorlois – _and_ a usurper. Arthur is the rightful heir and unless Uther has a change of heart, which is unlikely after all that’s happened in the recent years, Morgana will never have a _legal_ claim.”

Merlin is uncomfortably reminded of the fact that _their_ Arthur wouldn’t have a legal claim either, had _he_ not manipulated a dying Uther into acknowledging him and naming him as heir in the last moment. Morgan _is_ the older child, and she’s certainly determined and ruthless enough to rule successfully.

But those same traits make her unsuitable for Merlin’s purposes. He could never hope to lead and manipulate the formidable princess the same way e can do it with the boy King. He could never fight the nun’s influence and hope to win – she had fifteen years to work on Morgan, to shape her according to her plans. If he wanted Britain to raise the way it has been foretold, Morgan had to go.

 _And_ Arthur has to live, which appears less than likely, seeing that the young fool has just volunteered as target for the knife-thrower Gleeman.

The Gleeman has just bowed at the end of his act. All eyes focus on him as a hush descends over the Hall, and he looks around at the spectators.

“I require a volunteer,” he announces; then he stepps forward and sets his almost colourless, snake-like eyes on Arthur. “Prince Arthur. What better or more fitting occasion for you to demonstrate your legendary bravery?”

He clearly doesn’t know he’s spotted the wrong Prince, and Arthur cannott tell him right out. Most of the guests present still don’t know that _their_ Arthur is missing. If it came out, that could lead to a disaster for Camelot. So Arthur remains silent. This might not be _his_ Camelot, but for the moment it is his home, and he owes his counterpart to protect it.

“Do you accept the challenge?” the Gleeman now asks.

Arthur feels the eyes of the courtiers and knights awaiting his decision. The Lady Vivian in particular seems expectant, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Arthur cannot back off now, or he’d lose face, so he stands.

“Of course,” he announces, trying not to look half as scared as he truly is. Everyone would be scared if chosen by a knife-thrower as a living target.

There's a round of applause as Arthur makes his way through the Hall. Before he can get around the High Table, though, Lady Vivien springs to her feet, grabs his face in both hands and kisses him soundly – and unhurriedly – on the lips.

“For luck,” she says, and everyone around them – including her father – pounds on the table and roars with laughter.

Arthur grins at her reassuringly and heads over to the circular board where the Gleeman is waiting for him. 

“So, what am I supposed to do?” he asks cheekily.

“Just place yourself against the board, my lord,” replies the Gleeman; and as soon as Arthur does as he’s told, the Gleeman and his stunted assistant (whose name is apparently Geldred) strap Arthur's ankles and wrists to the restraints on the board. 

The cheeky grin freezes on Arthur’s face and he shoots a slightly nervous glance at the Gleeman, who stares at him with those reptile eyes unblinkingly.

“Do not fear, my Lord. I never miss my target.”

“That’s reassuring to know,” mutters Arthur; because it is _not_ , and Merlin knows it, too. It is as much a threat as a promise, and no-one else seems to understand.

“Let’s make it truly interesting, shall we?” The Gleeman pulls out an apple and before Arthur can object, places it in the young King's mouth. Then he nods to Geldred, who gives the wheel a push and it starts to spin. 

The court is "ooh"- ing and “aah”-ing as Arthur spins on the board. It clearly makes him feel dizzy, and a little nauseous, if the discolouring of his face is any indication, and Merlin begins worrying in earnest. Yet he chooses not to interfere. Not yet. Not until he absolutely must.

Another stunted assistant presents a case of knives to The Gleeman, who holds one of the blades up for the crowd to see. Without even stopping to take aim, he suddenly turns and throws the knife at Arthur. Merlin freezes in his seat, frantically thinking of a way he could interfere, but casting a spell requires a certain amount of preparation, for which he simply doesn’t have the _time_. He is immensely relived when the knife thuds into the board, mere inches from Arthur's face. 

A huge gasp goes up among the spectators, followed by a round of applause. Arthur is the only one who doesn’t appear to be relived. He eyes the knife warily as the board keeps spinning with him. King Uther, on the other hand, is very impressed, and so appears King Olaf. His daughter, Lady Vivian, however, has her eyes on Arthur alone and seems to be more concerned than excited now.

The Gleeman takes the next knife from the case, and the Hall becomes eerily silent as the tension builds. This time Merlin _is_ prepared to interfere if necessary, as the Gleeman suddenly throws the knife; but once again, it flies through the air and thuds into the board on the other side of Arthur's head. Another round of applause arises, and Merlin releases the breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding. 

It isn’t over yet, though. The Gleeman takes the last knife from the case. Lady Vivian closes her eyes and turns her head away, unable to watch. The other ladies are pale with concern, too. Not that _this_ Arthur would mean anything to them, but they obviously aren’t fond of risking a man’s life for mere entertainment. The two Kings, however, applaud gleefully. 

The Gleeman waves the last knife at King Uther, who nods permission for him to throw it. Arthur's eyes go wide as the Gleeman prepares to throw the knife. The tension rises as he takes aim. Lady Vivian bites her nails and screws her eyes tightly shut. Merlin is poised, ready to intervene magically. Fortunately, the headcloth he is wearing conceals his face as well as his whispered words as he casts the strongest protective spell he knows. He can only hope that it will be enough.

The Gleeman throws the knife. It spins through the air towards its target; Merlin instinctively closes his eyes. His heart nearly stops when he hears the blade slice into something that is _not_ wood. The crowd gasps and holds its collective breath for a moment… then the hall erupts in applause and Merlin dares to open his eyes again. He sees the wheel slow to a stop and the knife stuck straight into the apple in Arthur’s mouth. The Gleeman takes a bow and a circus man helps Arthur down from the wheel.

Arthur tosses the apple and catches it, then shrugs back into his jacket with the help of George, his overly serious manservant. Lady Vivian springs to her feet again, runs to him and hugs him passionately.

“I knew you’d be all right!” she announces, but the relief in her voice belies her words. Arthur grins and takes a bite of the apple.

“See? Nothing to worry about,” he replies, chewing, and saunters back to the High Table.

Merlin feels Gaius’s touch on his arm.

“Your eyes are bleeding,” says the old man quietly. “Are you all right?”

Merlin uses the edge of the headcloth to clean his face.

“More or less,” he replies tiredly. “I’m still weak, and that protective spell cost me a lot of strength. I’ll live.”

“At least it worked,” offers Gaius. “Your Arthur is safe now.”

“I’m not sure,” Merlin warily watches the Gleeman having a quiet word with his stunted assistant, Geldred. They don’t seem disappointed at all. “We cannot be certain that their actual plan was to _accidentally_ kill him during the performance.”

“What else could it have been?” wonders Gaius, and Merlin shrugs.

“I don’t know; and that worries me. We’ll have to watch those two closely.”

“Shouldn’t we be watching Arthur?”

“Leontes can do that for us. Watching the Gleeman and his helpers is more important.

Gaius hesitates for a moment; then he nods.

“I’ll speak to Sir Leon,” he promises.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Shortly thereafter the feast ends and the guests agree that it was spectacular, even though the Prince himself has missed it due to the unfortunate border dispute that happened to call him away in the last moment.

“At least the King was more himself than we have seen him for a long time,” says Morris, Uther’s trusted manservant; then he turns to Arthur. “He would speak to you briefly before your retire for the night, young master.”

This is not the title the boy King is used to be addressed by, but he’s come to accept it. It is the court’s choice to tell him from _their_ Arthur; and, at the very least, it is a sign of respect.

“I’ll go to him at once,” he replies, then he lets out an enormous yawn and staggers for a moment.

“I can escort you to the King’s chambers,” offers Morris, but Arthur shakes his head.

“I didn’t drink so much that I could not walk down the corridor on my own,” he says – and promptly runs into a column, proving that statement false.

Morris catches him and stops him from falling over. Arthur rights himself and continues walking, waving off the old servant’s attempts to support him.

“I doubt that anything would happen to him on the short way to the King’s chambers,” says Leontes, who has been alerted by Gaius. “Leave him. I shall follow him and see him to his own quarters, once the King is done with him.”

Morris thanks him and hurries off; he has things to prepare for the next day. Leontes waits for a few moments to allow Arthur to reach the King’s chambers (unless he falls over on the way there), and then heads in the same direction.

As soon as he arrives at King Uther’s door, he sees at once that something is very wrong. The two guards that usually hold watch at the door are lying on the stone floor, obviously dead. The throwing knives raging out of their hearts leave no doubt about who has killed them.

Leontes steps over the dead guards. One of them is missing his sword, which is not a good sign. As Leontes is coming directly from the banquet, he is unarmed himself (only the royal family is allowed to carry weapons during such events), so he draws the sword of the other guard before heading inside.

The sight that greets him in the King’s anteroom makes his blood freeze for a moment. Uther is slumped in one of the armchairs, while Arthur is trying to fend off the Gleeman’s attacks. Under normal circumstances that won’t be an impossible task – he _is_ a very good swordsman, trained mercilessly by Gawain – but right now he’s clearly sleepy and disoriented. Leontes remembers the apple the Gleeman put into his mouth during the performance and understands that it truly wasn’t too much wine that has made him to tired.

Clearly, the plan has been to make him an easy target – and it is working. His sword is knocked out of his hand and thrown across the room. He collapses to his knees, with the Gleeman standing over him, ready to deliver the killing blow.

“Good-bye, Arthur Pendragon,” he hisses, raising his sword, ready to strike.

Arthur is powerless, and Leontes is still too far from the scene to interfere. He fears this might be the end. But as the Gleeman strikes, the blow is blocked by a sword. Leontes sees in surprise King Uther standing there, Arthur’s sword in his hand.

“It will take more than a coward like you to kill my son,” declares the King.

Which is true, of course, especially as _his_ Arthur isn’t even there, but the Gleeman can’t know _that_. He strikes again. Uther blocks the blow. They trade a series of ferocious blows and Leontes, an experienced swordsman himself, begins to worry, because the Gleeman is skilled with the blade and the King is obviously rusty. He is beaten back and only narrowly avoids being killed.

Arthur tries to get his feet to go to Uther’s aid, but he’s too drowsy and collapses back to the floor. Uther attacks and again, the Gleeman easily defects the blow.

“Have you anything to say to your son before I kill him?” he taints the King cruelly.

Uther looks at first at the helpless Arthur, still kneeling on the floor. Then, from the corner of his eye, he spots Leontes – and smiles. It is a cold, unpleasant, triumphant smile.

“Protect your King,” he says coldly, “while I take this trash out.”

Leontes nods and hurries over to Arthur. The Gleeman is distracted by the interlude, and Uther attacks with new ferocity, taking him by surprise, raining blow after blow on him, forcing him back, knocking the sword from his hand. However, as he prepares to deliver the fatal blow, the Gleeman suddenly draws a knife and lunges at him. Leontes sees in relief Uther thrusting his sword; but then the King suddenly appears weak and his knees buckle.

Leontes realizes that the King, too, must have been severely wounded. He leaves Arthur’s side to catch Uther, who sinks to the floor by the armchair, and sees blood staining the King’s robes. The Gleeman _has_ managed a fatal blow, after all.

Leontes checks if the assassin is truly dead. Then he goes to look for Morris and to send somebody to fetch Gaius. There is nothing else _he_ could do here.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“What has the King wanted from you?” asks Leontes.

They are waiting for news in the King’s antechamber while Gaius is treating him in the bedroom. Arthur is wide awake now; whatever might have been on that apple, the excitement of the fight and the worry about King Uther have neutralised its effect on him.

“He thanked me for playing my part,” he says slowly. “He said... he said I’ve done well since our arrival. He said I’d have made my father proud,” he sighs. “I know my father never truly cared for me, Leontes, but I’d want to make _this_ King Uther proud of me.”

“Let’s hope you still can,” replies Leontes, but he isn’t feeling too hopeful about that. The knife hit awfully close to the King’s heart, and they both know it.

“I wonder what will happen now,” says Arthur.

Leontes has no answer to that. Somebody else, though apparently, has. Somebody clears his throat behind them, and as they turn around, they see Geoffrey de Monmouth standing in the doorframe.

“My lords, I’d like to have a word with you,” he says. “The King left orders with me, in case something might happen to him before Prince Arthur’s return. If you’d kindly follow me… we have much to discuss.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Agravaine uses the general uproar to slip out of the Citadel and ride to Morgana’s hut in a great hurry. Not having had the chance to alert her in advance, he takes her by surprise – and she reacts instinctively, like a striking cobra: she spins, drawing a dagger, ready to plunge it into Agravaine. He gives her a sly smile.

“Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?” 

Morgana lowers the dagger, not the least softened. “I wasn't expecting you today.”

“I had to see you. I bring good news. Better than we could have hoped for,” Agravaine looks around. “But where’s the sorcerer?”

Morgana waves off his concern. “He’s no longer your problem. I’ve taken care of him… permanently. Tell me your news.”

Agravaine shrugs. The sorcerer could have been useful, but if she chose to get rid of him, no-one would shed a tear after the man.

“Uther has been mortally wounded,” he says. “He's on his deathbed. Gaius says he only has days to live.”

“I hope the image of my face haunts him,” comments Morgana with a cruel smile. “What happened?”

Agravaine shrugs dismissively again. “Odin sent another assassin. The fool didn’t know he’d picked the wrong Arthur and attacked the brat in Uther’s chambers. Uther tried to protect him and slew the assassin but suffered a fatal wound himself.”

Morgana smiles coldly again. “My time has come, I see. We must strike while the Citadel is vulnerable.” 

Agravaine grabs her arm. “Have a little more patience. When Uther dies, the kingdom will be weak, that is true. But we must choose our moments carefully. Who knows what opportunities the coming weeks will hold.”

Morgana looks pointedly down at her arm in his grab and Agravaine lets go hurriedly.

“’Tis not hard to guess,” she then says. “With Uther dead and Arthur gone, I’m the only Pendragon left. The only one entitled to wear the crown.”

“Let’s not become overconfident,” warns Agravaine. “Uther isn’t dead yet; and we cannot know what contingency plans he has set in motion.”

“Then go back and find out,” orders Morgana coldly. “I do not want any surprises when I return to claim again what is mine.”


	15. The Coming of Elves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly, I used the film version of the Mirkwood Elves as templates for this. Also, I know nigh to nothing about the seasonal alignment of Elves in the various RPGs. I just did a bit of Google search and used certain elements that seemed to fit into my story. And Camelot!Merlin’s background as described here is entirely my doing, with a few elements of the Arthurian legends added for flavour.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 15 – THE COMING OF ELVES**

This is Merlin’s first chance to take a good, hard look at the gorgeous ruin that is Britain’s Camelot. It is completely abandoned now, even Gawain and Bastrias seem to have left, and nature has taken over the crumbling stones again. The carvings on the columns are once more covered with living vines, twining cheerfully with one another as they climb, their flowers long gone, yet still full of vibrant red, yellow or brown leaves, despite the close approach of winter.

“It looks like an entrance to some fairy realm,” says Merlin softly, remembering of old legends that even back home, where magic is strongly present, count just like that: legends.

“The old tales say that the Fall Court of the Elves had one of their gates in Camelot once,” replies Vivian quietly. “Back before the Fey Realm and the mortal world split apart.”

“That must have been a long time ago,” comments Merlin.

Vivian nods. “Thousands of years ago; or so they say. Still this is the most magical place in the entire Britain, built because of the holy well nearby… not that anyone would know _where_ exactly it is anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter; I can always cast a guiding spell,” Merlin gives her a questioning look. “Do you still want to do this?”

Vivian nods again. “I do. As you said: this is my birthright. My mothers and their mothers before them never had the chance to use their gift, because there was no-one who could have read the marks they were bearing. I owe them to at least give it a try.”

“Very well,” says Merlin. Let me cast that guiding spell and find the holy well; after that, we’ll see if it can be done at all.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And that is what they do. Merlin casts the spell, cajoling up an orb of golden light that leads them to a rich, grassy glade in the forest, barely outside the ruined castle and yet near-impossible to find if one doesn’t know what to look for. A great number of broad-headed, short-stemmed, wide-branched oaks – perchance old enough to have witnessed the stately march of Roman legions across Britain – fling their gnarled arms over a thick carpet of beautiful green sward. 

In some places they are intermingled with hollies, beeches and other trees, standing closely enough to block the level beams of the sinking sun. In other patches the red rays can come through, illuminating a considerable open place in the midst of the glade.

A place that makes Merlin think of the holy hains of the Druids, back home. For on top of a clearly man-made hillock, part of a circle of rough, unhewn stones is still standing. Some of the huge standing stones are still in their original places, their withered heads coloured red by the evening light. Others have been dislodged – either by some heavy storm or by the over-zealous attempts of the new religion that has spread all over Britain – and are lying on the floor. A few near their former place, others scattered in broken pieces on the hillside.

One particularly large stone had rolled down all the way to the foot of the hill and stopped the course of a small brook that is gliding smoothly around the hill, murmuring quietly as it bubbles over the broken stone.

The guiding light goes out here, signalling that they’ve reached their destination, but Merlin already knows. He can _feel_ the magic still lingering in this place, faint though it might be. And as he crouches down to scoop up some water in his cupped hands and takes a drink, slender, half-transparent shapes rise from the brook, surrounded by water bubbles. They look like young women with long, silver-blond hair, and their sing-song voices remind him of the murmurs of running water.

“Emrys,” they sing. “You have come!”

To say that Merlin is flabbergasted would be an understatement.

“You know me? How? And who are you anyway?”

“We are the Vilia,” they sing, “the spirits of brooks and streams. Some of us got through the tear in the veil between worlds and healed you from the injury given you by the Dorocha. We know you came through; we could _feel_ you.”

“Are there others like you in this place?” asks Merlin. “Or any other spirits?”

The bubbles dance around a little, and the music of the voices becomes sadder. More subdued.”

“We are the last ones left,” they sing. “We could only remain here because the holy well is still undamaged. But now that you’ve brought us _her_ , true magic might return to this place. Not right now; perhaps not even within her lifetime. But given enough time, it _will_.”

“What do we need to do?” asks Merlin.

“Just read the spell hidden in her marks out loud,” they sing. “We shall do the rest.”

Thus Merlin focuses on the marks covering Vivian’s forehead and cheeks, finds the worlds that are in the language of the Old Religion, and puts the spell together. When he reads it out loud, Vivian cries out in pain because the marks that were black till now suddenly begin to shine and burn like molten gold.

The Vilia dance closer with their bubbles, reach out and touch the burning marks. Their touch is cool and wet and the burning stops. The marks, however, remain like gold filigree.

“Now you have been initiated,” they sing. “Rest and get used to your new powers. We shall see you again in the enchanted forest of Brocéliande when the time is right. For you are destined to become the guardian of the Fountain of Barenton. And you, Emrys, must also come, if you want to get home.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
With that, they fade away before Merlin could ask anything. Right now he’s more concerned about Vivian, though.

“Are you still in pain?” he asks and she shakes her head.

“No; I just feel strange, as if something would be growing inside me; something that wants to break to the surface. It is… frightening.”

“I imagine it is,” he says. “Your powers have been suppressed for generations; and you don’t have shields yet to keep them under control. I can help with that.”

“How?” Vivian’s eyes are dark and frightened; her marks are glowing.

“I shall create shields for you until you learn how to build them on your own,” explains Merlin. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she says simply, and Merlin extends his hand, his eyes turning molten gold. He whispers a spell, then another one; and then a third one, and after that Vivian’s marks, while still golden, stop glowing actively.

“Better?” he asks, and she nods gratefully.

“Much better. Can I learn how to do this?”

“Of course. In fact, you’ll _need_ to learn it. And I can and will teach you…”

He trails off because in that very moment something decidedly odd is happening. The fabric of the world seems to tear like a piece of cloth – or, more accurately, it opens like a light-filled gateway hanging in thin air – and out marches a small army of the most extraordinary creatures he’s seen in his whole life. And considering all the strange things he’s seen since moving to Camelot, _that_ ’s saying a lot.

The newcomers are man-shaped, though taller and of more slender build. Their hair is long and shiny, and their elegantly-swung ears end in fine points. _That_ and their jewel-like eyes reveal them as the only beings they could possibly be: Elves.

The procession is led by a group of what must be hunters or scouts: foot troops in fitted coats, the textured green or brown fabric of which makes them look as if they were clad in tree-bark. The coat-tails are cut into separate, leaf shaped pieces to allow them to move nimbly; and as they do, the tails prove light enough to lift and flash the lighter colour of the silk with which they are lined. Over the coat they are wearing a corset-like body piece of soft olive leather, covered with bronze leaf-maille. They carry short hunting bows on their backs, with long, twin knives and beautifully made leather quivers on their belts. Leggings made of soft leather and light ankle boots complete their appearance.

The next group looks even more otherworldly. While the hunters have pale skin, with the slight grey hue of stone or beech trees, their russet hair braided away from their faces, _these_ Elves are masked completely. Their coats are similar to those of the hunters, but they also wear leaf-maille shirts down to their knees, with bronze shoulder pieces and vambraces, as well as protective leg armour and sleeveless surcoats, all in moss green or brown. Their masks – or perhaps helmets – only cover their skulls and the upper part of their faces, with a veil to hide the rest. Those masks also have fan-like extensions that start on the cheeks and swing elegantly upward to meet on top of the helmet. They are armed with halberds and long swords.

All these people are marching on foot – with two exceptions. Mounted on huge elks, two solitary figures ride slowly in the middle of the troops. One of them is clearly a woman, with flaming red hair, clad in a long, green sleeveless travelling coat of raw silk above her leather cuirass, green deerskin jacket and split skirt. She’s armed with a great bow and a longsword and looks very much like somebody who knows how to use them. She’s exceptionally beautiful and appears very young, yet the wisdom of ages glitters in her emerald eyes.

The other one is a tall, slender man with square shoulders and long, straight silver-blond hair. He is clothed similarly to the veiled guards, only that his coat is woven through and through with silver and has a full skirt. Instead of a mail shirt he has a lamed breastplate, also washed with silver. He, too, is wearing a half-helmet – or rather an impassive, sculptural half-mask that can slide down over his face, if necessary. Instead of the fan-like extensions, his helmet is adorned with huge antlers, similar to those of his steed. He’s armed with _two_ longswords. His face is pale and beautiful beyond measure, his eyes are icy blue.

It is the lady who rides forth to greet the two mortals, and she does so with obvious delight.

“Hail, mortals, who have brought back true magic to this place and thus opened the gates between our worlds after such a long time!” she calls in a clear, ringing voice. “I am Tindómiel, Princess of the Autumn Court, and I welcome you in the name of the Winter Lord as well,” she indicates the other rider with a bird-like tilt of her head and adds. “You are having the rare honour of being in the presence of King Helcaran, whom your fellow mortals once knew as Lord Herne.”

“And to what do we owe this great honour?” asks Merlin warily. The legends ranking around Elves – _all_ kinds of Elves – aren’t suited to invoke instant trusts. Especially the ones about Lord Herne are more than just a little ambiguous.

“Your arrival has brought new hope for us all,” replies the Fall Princess. “For unnumbered years, the Fae Realm was split from the mortal world; and for the last six centuries we couldn’t even pass through our gates anymore. Not since Queen Mab created the sorcerer Merlin six hundred years ago. She wanted to lead the world back to the Old Ways; but her pupil turned against her and caused her downfall. The two of you, however, opened the gates again; and now that which was once separated might be united anew.”

“I do not understand,” confesses Merlin.

“You will; when the time’s here,” says the Princess. “We shall have a feast, right here, where we once feasted with our mortal allies, and we shall explain you all you need to know.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Not truly having any other choice, Merlin and Vivian agree, and the Elves stamp something akin a belated Samhain feast from the very earth in no time. As the Winter Court is ascending, soon, King Helcaran presides on the feast (the Winter Court being superior to the Fall one). His throne is the first thing to appear – in the exact place where once the high seat of Camelot’s King stood.

The Winter Throne is an amazing sight. It looks like the trunk of a millennia-old, petrified oak, the two remaining branches of which gable out like the antlers of a huge elk, shaping themselves into two facing eagle faces within the gable. Each of those branches is thicker than the waist of a grown man. Thick, gnarled roots serve as footstools, and shorter side branches as armrests. When Lord Herne takes his seat, he becomes _one_ with his throne, as if they were but parts of the same fantastic and mildly terrifying creature.

And that is just the beginning. In the next few moments Merlin and Vivian becomes to see with their own – utterly awed – eyes what real, honest-to-earth Elven glamour is truly capable of. For in a matter of a blink (or five) the Elves stomp the equivalent of a belated Samhain feast out of the ground – and much more than just that.

By the working of a magic Merlin has never experienced before, Camelot rises from its ruin. While the pillars are still entwined with living vines, the empty places between them fill up with walls, decorated with colourful paintings and wall hangings. Those aren’t real walls, of course, as the domed ceiling suddenly closing above their head is a mere illusion, too; once can see through them like through clean water, and the red sunlight turns bright gold as it filters through the glamour. But Merlin now can imagine what _this_ Camelot must have been in its heyday: a true fairy castle, filled with wonders.

The long trestle tables that spring up from the ground, though, are real enough, and so is the food, under the weight of which they appear to groan. There are all sorts of fruit, from grapes, apples, pears and nuts through the wild berries of the forest to such rare delicacies that only Kings can have on their tables, as they have to be brought in from far-away places like al-Andalus: peaches and apricots and dates – even oranges. There are dishes made of venison and fowl as well as of several kinds of fish. There is bread so soft that it melts in one’s mouth, baked in fantastic shapes like birds and forest animals. Not to mention the wine: sharp, pale yellow or deep ruby red wines that make mortal heads spin very quickly.

Ant there is entertainment, too. Elven musicians fill the great throne room, playing golden harps, lutes and silver transverse flutes and singing in perfect harmony that could break the mortal heart with its sheer beauty. It isn’t the pale, fading kind of beauty most men imagine anything Elven would be (since they never had the chance to experience the real thing). It has an underlying, untameable wildness that makes Merlin’s blood sing and his ear-tips glow; and while Vivian is too dark-skinned to blush visibly, she is sitting close enough to him to feel the heat radiating from her.

Princess Tindómiel must have spotted their reaction to Elven wine and Elven music because she smiles.

“This is the heartbeat of the earth that you feel in your very bones,” she says. “Clearly, you both have Elven blood in your veins.”

Merlin shakes his head. “Not that I’d know.”

“Nonsense,” says Lord Herne in a bored tone. “You are a Dragonlord. _All_ Dragonlords have Elven ancestors; usually knights or sorcerers from the Summer Court, or else they wouldn’t be born with magic and couldn’t bend dragons to their will,” he glances at Vivian. “This one is of earth and water. She must come from an Autumn-born ancestor,” he turns his impassionate gaze to the Fall Princess. “You might want to have a mask made for her, as she is clearly the chosen guardian of the Fountain of Barenton.”

“The Vilia spoke about this as well,” says Merlin, “but what does it mean? What _is_ the Fountain of Barenton? Some kind of holy well?”

The Winter Lord rolls his eyes at the face of so much ignorance but doesn’t deign to answer, leaving such bothersome tasks to the Fall Princess. She, at least, appears to be more patient with lesser beings. Not that Elven arrogance would surprise Merlin. Not after his experiences with the Sidhe.

Of course, he _did_ manage to kill a Sidhe Elder, but that’s not something he wants to tell _these_ Elves.

“The Fountain of Barenton is the most magical place in Britain,” explains Princess Tindómiel. “Its water keeps bubbling even if it is as cold as marble. To the left of the fountain’s source is a huge stone slab; whoever sprinkles water from the spring onto this slab will not only bring about a huge thunderstorm, but also rouse the Black Knight who guards the magical fountain. Or so it was a long, long time ago. For thousands of years, the Fountain had no guardian.”

“Could that Fountain possibly help us to get home?” asks Merlin, and the Princess nods.

“It might, as on the main festivals of the year, like Samhain or Beltane, the thunderstorm would be strong enough to open a portal between worlds. You must consider carefully before making that step, though. The Fountain is in the Valley of no return: a place of great enchantment and magic. Those who enter the Valley may never leave it again, save for the portal that can only be opened twice a year – and only to foreign worlds.”

“Unless you are an Elf, of course,” adds the Winter Lord haughtily.

“But if Vivian takes up guardianship over the Fountain…”

Merlin trails off, uncertainly, and the Princess nods again.

“She won’t be able to leave the Valley ever again. That is her destiny. It was the destiny of all her foremothers; what they have been brought here from Africa in the first place. No-one of them could find the way to fulfil that destiny, though. She will be the first… and the last.”

“Destiny,” mutters Merlin darkly. “How I _hate_ that word! Because of mine, I have no life on my own, and Vivian will spend the rest of her life alone if she follows hers.” 

“Not alone,” corrects the Princess. “Apart from other mortals, perhaps; but we shall visit her all the time. For she is Autumn-born, and we take care of our own.”

That promise doesn’t make Merlin any happier, but Vivian nods her acceptance.

“If that is what my line has been chosen for since the dawn of time, then I shall follow the summons,” she says; then, with a glance at Merlin, she adds. “It shan’t be good if you and Prince Arthur got trapped in the Valley with me, though. Not that I would mind your company, but I doubt that you are meant to spend the rest of your life there, with me.”

“Not _him_ , no,” comments the Winter Lord mysteriously; but when they ask what he meant with that, he refuses to answer.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Fortunately for them, the Fall Princess is more willing to share her knowledge with them – a knowledge that is at least as rich as that of Lord Herne. It is unusual for the Autumn-born to share their secrets with outsiders, even with other Elves, she explains, but for them Vivian is kin and needs to learn a great deal to perform her task as guardian properly. So Princess Tindómiel is willing to giver her the basics, for the time being.

“As much as this world is similar to the one you come from,” she begins, looking at Merlin, “there are some profound differences, too. In _your_ world Prince Arthur is destined to become the once and future King who unites Albion – and it is your task to help him acquire that lofty goal.”

“I know,” replies Merlin gloomily. “You mean it isn’t so _here_?”

The Fall Princess shakes her head. “It all began six hundred years ago, when the new religion started spreading in Britain and caused magic to evaporate from this world. Queen Mab, at that time ruler of the Winter Court, was desperate to steer things back to the Old Ways and decided to take a drastic step: to mix the blood of mortals with that of the Courtless. As a result, a boy-child was born: half mortal, half Elf, with the life span of his Elven parent but without the in-born magic (and, fortunately, also without the in-born insanity) of the Courtless. This child was destined to help bring back the Old Ways by helping Mab’s mortal progeny to the throne of Camelot. He, however, turned against he Queen, causing her downfall, and decided to raise a King who would unite Britain according to his ideas.”

“I assume you are speaking of this world’s Merlin,” guesses Vivian, and the Princess nods. “Does it mean that Morgan is actually the progeny of a Fairy Queen?”

The Princess nods again. “Her mother descended from Queen Mab indeed – and from Mab’s mortal consort Ailill, who was once the Lord of Camelot – through many generations of mortal men.”

“But who are these Courtless you have mentioned?” asks Merlin.

“Elves born under the Moon of Void and influenced by its mystical powers,” explains the Princess. “They are commonly considered to be mad, and they show strange behaviours, from early childhood on.”

“And Queen Mab chose one of _those_ to create her champion?” Merlin is understandably flabbergasted.

“She did, as the Courtless often have great magical talent, even by Elven measure,” says the Princess. “The few of us who follow the path of a warlock are almost exclusively Courtless. One ability common to all Courtless is the capacity to see what others do not, and such a gift can prove very useful in turbulent times.”

“You mean knowing the past or the future?” asks Vivian. “I heard that Merlin – the one who belongs here – can do that, to a certain extent.”

“That is one aspect of the gift,” answers the Princess. “But it may also mean seeing the invisible, looking into other realms of existence or discerning the truth amidst lies. Half-breds don’t have this ability from birth on, of course; but, unlike other mortals, they can _learn_ it by diligent training… and for a price every time they use magic.”

“I saw Morgan bleeding from the eyes,” says Vivian slowly. “Will it also happen to me, should I choose to use my powers?”

The Princess shakes her head. “The marks you bear don’t only contain the spell to awake your magic; they also provide protection from the side effects. That is their second purpose.”

Vivian looks at Merlin. “What about him? He does not have any marks.”

“He does not _need_ any,” says the Princess. “He is a Dragonlord, and Dragonlords are a category unto themselves – and unique to the world he comes from.”

Their conversation is disrupted by Lord Herne who announces the end of the festivities.

“The glamour upon Camelot will remain for another two days,” he adds, looking at the two mortals intently. “Put it to good use as long as it lasts.”

With a murmured spell, he opens the gateway in thin air again, and his entire court marches through and vanishes from mortal sight.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” wonders Merlin.

The Fall Princess, who has remained back for a moment with her masked guards, smiles.

“It means that you should touch passion when it comes your way, or you shall mourn your might-have-beens all your life,” she explains. “You, Merlin, have descended from the Summer-born; Elves who have strong passions and are not afraid to act on them. Neither should you. As for you,” she turns to Vivian, “this might be your last chance to love; because after you have taken over guardianship of the Fountain, your life will no longer be yours. Here and now, you are both free; and the glamour upon the castle will hide you and protect you for two more days. This is a unique chance that may never come again; do not let it go to waste.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
With that, she and her guards march through the enchanted gateway, which closes after them as if it hadn’t been there at all. Merlin and Vivian exchange uncertain looks.

“Well,” Merlin finally says. “It seems we’ve got an enchanted castle to our disposal. Shall we go and explore a little?”

Vivian is all for it, and thy spend a long time walking from one beautiful hall to another, admiring the semi-transparent walls that are still bearing their original, brilliant decoration, conjured up by Elven glamour.

“This must have been a glorious place in its heyday,” says Merlin, amazed; because not even the Camelot _he_ knows can come close. “I wonder who the people were who originally lived here.”

Vivian shrugs. “Who knows? For the next two days, though, it belongs to us,” she takes his hand and leads him towards what once must have been the royal bedchamber, if the enormous, four-poster bed with its brocaded curtains is any indication. It seems firmly existent, too, unlike the rest of the castle. “Shall we follow Lord Herne’s advice?”

Merlin feels his ears burn. “I… I wouldn’t know how,” he admits. The only woman he’s ever been drawn to was Freya, and she was killed ere they could have gone beyond kissing.

“Don’t worry,” says Vivian gently. “I shall teach you.”


	16. The Passing of Uther Pendragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “historical” Pendragon Castle (that has nothing to do with the historical Arthur, assuming he really existed) is indeed in Cumbria. I used that fact to create a false existence for Leontes.

CHAPTER 16 – THE PASSING OF UTHER PENDRAGON

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The news that King Uther has suffered a near-fatal injury while protecting his distant young cousin from King Odin’s treacherous assassin spreads across Camelot like wildfire. Townspeople gather in the Main Square to hold a candle-lit vigil for him. Harsh though the King’s reign might have been (especially for those entangled in magic), he has always kept the realm safe; and now, with Prince Arthur absent on some mysterious errand, the simple folk is worried.

The mood is gloomy inside the Citadel as well. In the Crown Prince’s absence, it remains in the hands of Lord Agravaine, Sir Leon and Geoffrey de Monmouth to keeps things running; and to fill in Leontes, whom the King has made Regent until Arthur’s return.

“We traced the assassin to the town of Whenham,” reports Lord Agravaine. “It is in King Odin's land. It seems he hired him to kill our Prince to avenge the death of his son.”

“We believe he had an accomplice among the performers,” adds Sir Leon, “but he has fled the city. We have doubled the guard, should there be another attempt on Arthur’s life. We cannot allow him to be mistakenly killed, just because the assassins cannot tell him from _our_ Arthur.”

Leontes nods, taking all these details in; not that they would help. Not much anyway.

“What news of King Uther?” he then asks.

“There is no change,” replies Geoffrey de Monmouth. “Gaius does everything in his might, but the sad truth is, there is nothing he can do. The blade has touched the King’s heart. He's bleeding inside.”

“And there is no-one else we could consult?” asks Leontes. “What about that Saracen herbalist who’s visited the feast? Saracens are said to be the best healers.”

Sir Leon shakes his head. “No-one has seen him since the feast.”

“Perhaps Gaius knows where to look for him,” suggests Master Geoffrey. “Shall I ask him?”

“No,” says Leontes, “I’ll do it. I have to pay the King a visit anyway. Thank you for your support, my lords, Master Geoffrey. I couldn’t do this without you, being a stranger in your realm. I truly wonder what King Uther was thinking, appointing _me_ of all people as Regent. I am a chance visitor here, after all.”

“Which is probably the very reason why the King chose you,” points out Master Geoffrey. “You have no former alliances, no old loyalties here to bind your hands. And, should _our_ Prince remain trapped in your world, you’ll have to support _your_ Arthur here; because then he’d be the heir apparent.”

“What about the Lady Morgana?” asks Leontes. “Have you not crowned her Queen of Camelot with your own hands?”

“I was forced to,” replies the court genealogist. “It isn’t legally binding, though. She was never acknowledged. Should the King die and our Prince fail to return, the law will support _your_ Arthur’s claim.”

“A frightening thought,” mutters Leontes darkly; but he’s careful to keep his voice low, so that the others can’t hear the remark.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Upon visiting the King’s chambers, Leontes finds him in a poor condition indeed. Uther is unconscious, very weak – close to death. The old court physician and the maid called Gwen (he cannot make himself think of her as _Guinevere_ ) are tending to him, but their efforts don’t seem to have much effect.

“Is there truly nothing you can do?” asks Leontes in quiet desperation. 

The thought of having to take up responsibility for Camelot – and by doing that, working against such a powerful and well-respected noble as Lord Agravaine, whose treachery isn’t yet known among the other court nobles – is, quite frankly, terrifying.

The old man shakes his head in regret. “It is just a matter of time, I’m afraid. To think that Arthur can’t even be here to say his farewells…”

“There must be _something_ we can do,” Leontes thinks for a moment; then he looks at Gwen. “Leave us alone. I have something to discuss with Master Gaius you’d be better off _not_ knowing about.”

Gwen gives him a mutinous glare but Leontes keeps ignoring her patiently until she finally leaves.

“She should do something about that attitude of hers,” comments Leontes dryly. “Should Prince Arthur _not_ return, it may get her in deep trouble; _our_ brat King prefers blondes and won’t overlook her transgressions.”

“Let’s hope it won’t come to that,” replies Gaius tiredly. “What would you discuss with me, my Lord?”

“The alternate way of healing,” says Leontes. “You might have exhausted the methods medicine can offer. But we still have _Merlin_.”

For a moment Gaius looks absolutely shocked.

“Do you think Uther is going to thank you for healing him with magic?” he then asks. “He’s more likely to have you hanged.”

“I don’t think so; has he not been ready to use magic, just to see his son again?” reminds him Leontes. “Besides, we don’t have to make it public that it was magic that healed him. We can pretend it was some arcane Saracen healing method.” Seeing Gaius’s surprise, he smiles. “You didn’t think you cold fool me, did you? That disguise was clever, but – unlike my King – I am an observant man; _and_ I’ve known Merlin for years. Long enough to recognize his mannerisms.”

“But will he be willing to take such risks?” asks Gaius. “He of all people should know that the use of powerful magic is fraught with danger. Even if other people don’t see through his disguise.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” says Leontes with a shrug. “He’s hell-bent to protect Arthur – _our_ Arthur – and he ought to know that Camelot would be a much safer place for the brat if King Uther lives.”

“And if he doesn’t see it that way?” asks Gaius.

“Then I shall make him change his mind,” says Leontes with a dark smile. “I can be very… persuasive if I put my mind to it, and he owes me a lot. Besides, we don’t have much to lose, do we?”

“Not really,” admits Gaius with a defeated sigh. “Very well. I’ll speak to Merlin and see if I can make him help us.”

“And I’ll tell Lord Agravaine about our plan,” says Leontes. “We’ll see what he’s going to do with that knowledge.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Lord Agravaine’s chambers in Camelot are furnished in the same sombre, masculine colours as the clothes he prefers to wear. He’s reading something when Leontes approaches him; clearly, the court nobles here aren’t such rustic, illiterate folk as in Leontes’s Britain. 

He looks up askance when the door opens.

“Lord Leontes. What news of the King’s health?”

“No improvement I’m afraid,” Leontes pretends to hesitate, and Agravaine spots his hesitation at once.

“Something is on your mind.”

It is not a question, but Leontes nods nevertheless.

“We might have found a way, but I didn’t want to go behind your back. The King, for reasons of his own, appointed me as Regent; but you’ve run things for him all this time. You’ve got the older claim here, I find.”

“That is very considerate of you,” smiles Agravaine, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What is this way you might have found?”

“There’s this Saracen herbalist, Youssef ibn Hazim,” explains Leontes. “It is known that Saracen healers are all more or less well-versed in healing magic. I have decided to seek out this one’s help to heal the King.”

Agravaine is visibly shocked. 

“I would strongly advice against such a course of action,” he protests.

Leontes shrugs. “There is no other way. We cannot let him die while his son is still missing. It would destabilize the realm.”

“Magic caused his wife’s death,” reminds him Agravaine. “His wife’s, who was also my sister. It would be disrespect against her memory if we chose this way.”

“So you’d rather see the King die?” interrupts Leontes, darkly satisfied that he’s managed to corner the traitor; even if he can’t prove Agravaine’s treachery just yet.

“Perhaps it is his time,” argues Agravaine lamely.

Leontes shakes his head. “I know you’ve suffered grievous losses because of magic, Lord Agravaine, but I can’t stand by and let the King die. Should your Prince Arthur find a way back, he would never forgive me.”

 _That_ is an argument Agravaine cannot counter. Leontes nods politely and leaves him alone… only to meet Sir Leon, who is waiting for him two corridors further down.

“Have someone watch him all the time and follow him, should he leave the Citadel,” he says. “We must find proof of where his true loyalties lie. I’m going to hunt down that Saracen healer in the meantime. He’s our last hope.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As soon as Leontes leaves his chambers, Agravaine hurriedly rides out to the woods to contact Morgana.

“Things aren’t developing according to our plans,” he admits grimly. “Lord Leontes, whom Uther has appointed to run things until Arthur’s return, has decided to consult with some Saracen healer. He intends to use the man’s skills to heal Uther. And we both know that Saracens are quite good at using healing magic, aside from their herbs and potions.”

Hearing this, a determined expression comes over Morgana's face. “Then we must see to it that he fails.”

She opens an innocent-looking wooden box, takes a tiny silver charm out of it and walks to the brazier, in which a small charcoal fire is burning. She casts the charm into the fire and incants a spell.

“ _Seolfor þræd aþring winstre, aþring yfele, aþring wiþ ealle gode cræfte_!” 

Suddenly, the flames flare, the firelight dances in her eyes. For that short moment she looks truly queenly, much more than at the time she was actually sitting on the throne. Agravaine looks on, in awe... and with more than just a little fear. He begins to understand that he’ll never be able to _control_ Morgana; thinking so has been folly, from the beginning.

Morgana takes a pair of tongs and pulls the charm from the raging fire. She turns to Agravaine and drops the charm into his hand. He instinctively reaches out and catches it, before realizing the danger of what he has just done... and is surprised when it doesn’t burn his hand.

“It's cold...” he looks at the charm, impressed.

“I have bound it to the left hand path,” she explains. “You must place the charm around Uther's neck.”

“What will it do to him?” asks Agravaine.

“The force of any healing magic will be reversed, and magnified tenfold,” replies Morgana with a dark little smile. “By trying to cure his Uther, the Saracen will seal his fate.”

“And his own, for causing the King’s death,” adds Agravaine with a smirk of his own. “And that of Lord Leontes, who suggested consulting him in the first place.”

“Which will put you back into the very position where we need you,” finishes Morgana. “Hurry up and be careful; we don’t want them to know about your true allegiance just yet.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The fact that Gaius knows quite well where the older Merlin is hiding comes in handy, of course. Half an hour later the supposedly Saracen healer arrives in the King’s chambers, with several books – disguised as herbals – under his arm. He doesn’t look full of hope, though.”

“I’d like to help you heal the King,” he says, his frustration obvious,” but I can’t even find the right spell!”

“That's because you're reading the wrong books. Here, “Gaius holds out a small leather-bound tome, which Merlin takes. “Gwillem of Cambria was as mad as a coot, but there has never been a better healer.”

“Thank you,” Merlin starts reading and is hugely relieves when he finds a spell that should heal even such a grave injury as the King’s. “This says we’ll need four drops of hogswart _and_ a sage branch. Do you have those among your supplies?

“Of course,” Gaius reads the healing spell over his shoulder. “But remember, you must only use four drops. Any more could be dangerous.”

“Let's hope I can remember the _spell_ ,” mutters Merlin, because it is a fairly complicated one; and in a tongue he doesn’t know, at that.”

“You must trust your abilities, Merlin,” replies Gaius in an almost fatherly manner. 

Which is ridiculous, as Merlin is, in truth, ten times Gaius’s age, but he understands that the old man is thinking of the _other_ Merlin in this moment; his apprentice that is like a son to him. The sorcerer doesn’t feel like laughing at all.

“Let’s go and give this a try,” is all he says.

In front of the King’s chambers they run into Gwen, and Gaius is surprised that she would have the dying man alone.

“Lord Agravaine was with him, just a moment ago,” she says defensively. “He sent me to start a fire, so that the King wouldn’t be cold.”

Gaius and Leontes, who’s come to meet them here, exchange grim looks.

“Did he now?” drawls Leontes. “I think we should check on the King’s condition at once.”

They hurry in and find, to their relief, Uther lying in bed, still breathing – barely. His condition has clearly deteriorated.

“We must hurry,” says Gaius. “He doesn’t have much time left.”

“I’ll try my best,” promises Merlin. “I just hope we aren’t already too late… and that the spell actually works.”

He takes out the small bottle of cloudy glass and carefully, _very_ carefully places four drops of hogswart on Uther's lips. Then he takes a branch of sage and holds it over the King. He focuses hard, until the sage branch begins to smoke and his eyes start bleeding. He wafts the incense over Uther and begins to chant, with increasing intensity.

“ _Efencume ætgædre, eala gastas cræftige: gestricie pis lic forod_.”

When Merlin completes the spell, silence falls over the chamber. The tension rises as they all look at the King, hoping to see some signs of life. For a moment, it looks like the spell has failed, and Merlin grows anxious. A moment later, however, Uther’s eyes snap open. Everyone is thrilled; Gaius laughs in relief. Even Merlin allows himself a smile, although his eyes are still bleeding.

However, as the King looks up at them, his face suddenly contorts in pain and his breath starts to fail.

“What’s happening?” asks Leontes, alarmed.

“I don’t know!” Merlin stares down at the fast-fading King helplessly. “ _This_ was not supposed to happen!”

At this moment the King goes still. Gaius feels for a pulse, but there is none. The old man reels.

“He’s dead! The King is dead!”

“I don’t understand,” mutters Merlin. “The spell was working. I'm sure of it; I could feel my strength flow into it. I did everything right. I don't know what happened.”

“I think I do,” Gaius about to cover the King’s face with the sheet, glimpses a small silver charm round Uther’s neck. “Look at this!”

Merlin carefully touches it, as if afraid it might burn him, and sways on his feet for a moment.

“It’s been bound to the left-hand path,” he murmurs.

Gaius nods. “It's been enchanted and such an enchantment would reverse the effects of your healing spell. Uther didn't stand a chance.”

“And we don’t have to think very hard about who might be responsible,” adds Leontes grimly. “The Lady Morgana.”

“I believe so,” agrees Gaius. “But how did she get the charm into the Citadel? _Somebody_ must have helped her.”

“And I have a theory _who_ that might have been,” says Leontes. “Let me check with Sir Leon first.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He finds Sir Leon in the company of Sir Gwaine (whose image he still cannot reconcile with the memory of _their_ Gawain). It appears that Gwaine was the one following Lord Agravaine out of Camelot and to the nearby woods, where the man visited someone in a small hut.

“I can’t say who it was, as I didn’t dare to get too close,” explains the knight. “But seeing that the King is dead, and due to magic at that, we don’t have to guess twice, do we?”

Leontes shakes his head in bewilderment. “And she dares to hide in clear sight, so close to Camelot?”

“Why not?” Gwaine shrugs. “I’ve seen what she’s capable of and believe me, she has nothing to fear from us. Unless we manage to find a sorcerer powerful enough to repel her, which isn’t likely.”

“The King may be dead, but magic is still outlawed in Camelot,” agrees Sir Leon. “Only the new King can change the law; and any powerful sorcerer or witch is more likely to ally themselves with Morgana than with us.”

“But can’t the law be interpreted differently?” asks Leontes.

Sir Leon frowns. “What do you mean?”

“King Uther has appointed me as Regent until his son returns,” says Leontes thoughtfully. “I may not change the law, but perhaps I can… weaken its effect a little. I could release a temporary edict that magic users shouldn’t be actively sought out and pursued, as long as they don’t harm anyone.”

“That would certainly solve the conflict with the Druids, at the very least,” says Sir Leon after some consideration, “and take _some_ of the wind out of Morgana’s sail. And since you’re a foreigner, people might even trust you. I’m not sure you can legally do this, though. I’m not a lawperson.”

“But Master Geoffrey is,” points out Gwaine. “You should ask him. If he says this is within your right as Regent, you can make the big announcement at the King’s funeral.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Uther Pendragon’s funeral is an event of great importance for the people of Camelot. On the one hand, they are grieving for the King who kept the real safe for more than twenty years, and now that he’s gone, they are concerned about the future. On the other hand, they are cautiously hopeful that the draconic laws (and _not_ only the ones concerning magic) might be eased the little under the rule of a new monarch, making life for the simple folk more bearable.

The fact that Prince Arthur hasn’t returned yet also serves as reason for concern, so this is what Geoffrey de Monmouth addresses first on the Main Square, where the dead King is bared up in state, so that his subjects can pay their respects for the last time.

“People of Camelot,” calls out the court genealogist in a clear voice that carries over to the furthest corner of the square, “we have come to say farewell to King Uther who has reigned and protected our realm for many long years. I know, the last couple of those years were hard on us all; and that is why the King wanted law and order being kept up after his death, until his son returns.”

“Where is Prince Arthur?” cries somebody from the crowd. “When is he coming back?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” replies Master Geoffrey. “He, his manservant and Sir Lancelot remained behind on the Isle of the Blessed to perform some dangerous task, the nature of which is not known to us. But until he returns, King Uther had appointed a distant cousin of his, Arthur of Cumbria, as the heir apparent; and Lord Leontes of Cumbria, the current lord of the ancient Pendragon Castle and the adjacent lands, as Regent. As they are both new to Camelot and its customs and traditions, however, Lord Agravaine duBois, whom you all know as the King’s brother-in-law, graciously agreed to stand by them and help them with his knowledge about realm and people.”

There’s some cheering among the crowd, showing that Agravaine has found quite a few supporters in Camelot, due to his commanding presence and smooth manners. Once again, Leontes makes a mental note _not_ to underestimate the man. Ever.

It is his turn to speak now, though, and he briefly prays to say the right thing. They’ve constructed the brief speech with the help of Master Geoffrey and Gaius, the ones who know the townspeople best, but it will be his task to react, should any questions arise, and that makes him nervous.

“People of Camelot,” he begins as confidently as he can manage, “as Master Geoffrey said, I am new to Camelot; therefore I do not intend to change anything in the – hopefully – short time until Prince Arthur’s return. My task is to keep the realm safe and stable for him; ‘tis up to him to decide whether he wants to make any changes, once he is crowned. There is _one_ thing, however, that I find needs immediate attention: the matter of magic.”

 _That_ catches everyone’s attention. The crowd falls eerily silent.

“I know that magic is outlawed in Camelot,” continues Leontes, “and I also know that many of you have suffered greatly from the Lady Morgana’s sorcery. I cannot change the law; neither do I _want_ to change it. But, as we say in Cumbria, you shouldn’t tarnish everyone with the same brush. Therefore I decree this until Prince Arthur’s return: magic users, as long as they do not harm anyone with their arts and do not exercise them publicly, won’t be actively hunted down any longer.”

He pauses for effect and sees many awed and even frightened faces in the crowd, which is not surprising. These people have lived in fear that somebody might accuse them of using magic and thus have them executed (even if they were innocent) since the Great Purge. Leontes allows the news to sink in, then he continues.

“As I said, this edict is only valid until Prince Arthur’s return; although I’m quite certain that he will approve it. But that is another matter for another day. However, any people caught using magic to _harm_ anyone, will still be pursued by the full strength of the law and punished according the law, should they prove guilty.”

He pauses again, gauging the reactions. This is a delicate balancing act between old and new, and he cannot be certain how people will take the change. He _hopes_ it will have an effect for the better, but there are no guarantees. Especially not with the Lady Morgana still hiding in the nearby woods, plotting against them.

“There is one more thing,” he says. “As mentioned before, I’m new to Camelot. But I’m also new to the task of ruling an entire realm. Which is why I asked Lord Godwyn of Gawant to become my counsellor. Not only is he one of King Uther’s oldest friends, who can help me run things until Prince Arthur’s return according to the King’s wishes; his daughter, Princess Elena, has also been taught to rule an independent realm properly; no matter how small that realm might be. I believe their help would be a blessing for us all.”

Cheers arise among the crowd again. Lord Godwyn and the lovely Princess are clearly well-known and well-liked here. Their mere presence will strengthen Leontes’s position in Camelot. That he welcomes the chance to spend more time in the company of Elena is another matter entirely, and by the sparkling of her eyes, the Princess isn’t averse to staying here a little longer, either.

There isn’t much else to say, really. People flock to the King’s bier to take one last look at him (or to reassure themselves that he’s _really_ dead; it’s hard to tell). Then the pallet bearers lift the bier onto their shoulders and carry it down to the crypt, where all Kings of Camelot lie. There Uther Pendragon is laid to rest, next to his much-loved wife, Ygraine, and will hopefully find peace.

It is breaking Gaius’s heart that his son cannot be here in that moment.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Leontes of _Cumbria_?” asks Merlin in surprise.

He’s back in Mistress Alice’s house, having shed his Saracen disguise, listening to Gaius’s news.

“Cumbria is the place where the Pendragons originally came from,” explains Gaius. “It’s a distant little corner of Camelot now: an old castle with copious lands that the King granted to Lord Leontes before his death, so that he could appoint him as Regent. _Your_ Arthur has supposedly lived there all his life. That way he can be considered a Pendragon – one of _our_ Pendragons – and eligible as the heir apparent.”

“Unless we can undo the exchange and go home.”

“Of course. This mainly serves to keep Morgana out of the order of succession, even if we won’t be able to get our Prince back.”

“Let’s hope that won’t happen,” mutters Merlin. “Nothing against your world, but I’d prefer to go back where we belong.”

“And _we_ would prefer to have our Arthur and our Merlin again,” agrees Gaius. “In any case, now that magic is being tolerated as long as it isn’t practiced publicly, Lord Leontes wants you to consider moving into the Citadel.”

“As what? His court sorcerer?” asks Merlin acerbically.

Gaius rolls his eyes. “As Arthur’s mentor. Isn’t that what you are anyway? With Lord Agravaine around, the boy isn’t safe; and you can protect him in ways no-one else could. You’ll get your own chambers, right next to his, proper clothes in which you won’t stand out of the court, and you can use the royal library as you please.”

“But Lord Agravaine knows exactly who I am… and what I know about him,” reminds him Merlin.

Gaius smiles, and for the first time since they met, there’s a little evil glee in his smile.

“That is the idea, yes. We won’t tell him what we know; that will make him sweat a little, and that way he might make mistakes.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” says Merlin with a dark little smile. “I shall make him sweat all right. I haven’t forgotten that I was turned into a rat, thanks to him.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And so it happens that Merlin – officially the mentor of young Arthur of Cumbria – is moved to the Citadel, into quarters more luxurious than he’s ever seen in his unnaturally long life. He is given clothes, finer than even a king can call his own in Britain, a place at the King’s table among the ranking court servants like Gaius and Master Geoffrey, and open access to the royal library – including the secret vaults where the Forbidden Tomes are held.

The knowledge accumulated in those books fascinates him. There are some that contain secrets of the dark arts, for sure; that’s why they are forbidden, after all. But the great majority of them are about the history of magic in Albion, collections of spells and practices meant to help people and make life easier and safer for them.

It is so much more than what his Courtless parent has taught him. And, unlike the magic _he_ was taught, the knowledge appears mostly benevolent.

It takes him time to learn the language of the Old Religion, but fortunately, he has inherited his Elven parent’s affinity for languages. And when he begins to understand the ancient texts, it’s as if a whole new world had opened up before his fascinated eyes. 

Studying the books Gaius and Master Geoffrey suggest, he soon understands that their best chance to undo the exchange will be at Beltane – almost half a year from now. And they’ll have to be on the Isle of the Blessed for that.

On the one hand, he doesn’t truly mind being stuck here for a while. He can learn an enormous amount in these six months. And to see the Isle of the Blessed, the cradle of all magic in this world, is alluring.

On the other hand, he is seriously worried about all kinds of trouble Arthur can get in six months. Starting with the torrid affair the brat is currently having with King Olaf’s daughter. Somehow Merlin has the unpleasant feeling that keeping Arthur safe until they – probably, hopefully – can get home will be the hardest part of their time here. Even without various assassins mistaking him for this world’s Arthur.

He wishes he could count on Leontes’s help. But Leontes will have his hands full with keeping the realm safe; and besides, he seems to have gone native among the people of Camelot. He might not even _want_ to go home, and Merlin wonders what it would mean for their counterparts, should Leontes choose to remain here.

But that is another matter for another day. Right now all they can do is to make the best of this involuntary visit in Camelot – and hope that Morgan won’t ruin everything back home till they can return.


	17. The Hour of the Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit I was very disappointed that we never actually learned what the wolf haunting Morgan really was. This is simply my interpretation.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 17 – THE HOUR OF THE WOLF**

When Merlin and Vivian return to Castle Pendragon three days later, they find the entire keep in uproar. People are working feverishly to reinforce the walls, every available room is full with fugitives, Lancelot is putting the guards through merciless drills, and Arthur is riding back to the Castle with a troop of men-at-arms, clearly coming from battle, as some horses carry their dead riders on their backs, tightly wrapped in blankets.

“What’s happened?” asks Merlin in concern.

“Apparently, the Duke of Orkney has decided that it is time to punish Uther’s heir for the murdering of his uncle and attacked the borders without forewarning,” explains Arthur grimly. “We gave them a bloody nose, but we also lost a few men; losses that we cannot truly afford right now, when Morgan is still trying to establish her reign more firmly.”

“Which is exactly why the Duke chose this time to start a border war, I assume,” says Merlin. “Who is he anyway and who was his uncle?”

“The first husband of Queen Igraine,” replies Vivian in Arthur’s stead.

Merlin’s eyebrows climb nearly into his hairline.

“The one whose shape the King took on, using transformation magic, to get into the lady’s bed?”

“The very same,” says Vivian. “The current Duke is the son of his sister and would never have gotten the title and the keep, had his uncle lived to sire any children.”

“Shouldn’t he be grateful to the King, then?” frowns Merlin.

“He should,” agrees Arthur, “but apparently, becoming a Duke has made him hungry for more, and now he has an eye on the throne. Not that he’d stand a chance; he doesn’t seem to have a clue about tactical thinking, and his troops are poorly trained.”

“But people are still going to die because of the greed of one man,” says Merlin glumly, and Arthur nods.

“I know. I hate it, too. But it isn’t so as if they would give us any other choice than trying to make this end quickly and with as few lives lost as possible.”

“And that’s what will make you a great King one day,” tells him Merlin. “That you care about the simple folk; unlike Morgana, who wouldn’t mind if all people in Camelot were slaughtered, as long as she could have the throne.”

“And that is the only thing I’ll never forgive her for,” replies Arthur grimly; then he changes the topic. “What about you? Have you found anything useful in that crumbling ruin?”

“Well, we’ve found the holy well, to begin with,” says Merlin brightly. “And then, of course, we met the Elves.”

Arthur gives him a blank look. “ _Elves_? You mean there are Sidhe in this world, too?”

“No, not Sidhe,” says Merlin. “These were real, honest-to-earth Elves: tall, beautiful, thoroughly magical and arrogant to the bone. But they recognized me as a Dragonlord and declared me kin, as Dragonlords apparently descend from Elves belonging to their Summer Court, whatever _that_ is supposed to be. And so they told me when and where we might try to get home.”

“And?” asks Arthur impatiently. “Are you going to tell me?”

“You won’t like it,” says Merlin. “According to them, we must go to the Valley of No Return at the next major seasonal feast, which happens to be Beltane, and try to open a gateway between our worlds, using the magical powers of the Fountain of Barenton.”

“Which is… what exactly?”

“Presumably a stone-lined pool whose waters boil while remaining cool,” Merlin shrugs. “Beside it is a _perron_ – a stone slab – that can summon thunderstorms when the water of the fountain is poured over it. On any of the sacred days of the Old Religion, the Veil between worlds can be briefly passed during such a thunderstorm.”

Arthur doesn’t seem to take all this for face value.

“Where’s the catch? It can’t be quite that simple.”

“Well, as I said, the Fountain is in the Valley of No Return,” says Merlin. “Once entered, no-one can come back. And if we fail to pass the Veil, we’ll be trapped in the Valley forever.”

“We’re just as trapped _here_ ,” says Arthur, but he doesn’t seem very comfortable with that idea, either.

“True,” allows Merlin. “Fortunately, we have nearly six months till Beltane to make up our minds.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They ride up to the Castle together, where Morgan is already waiting for them, anxious for news about the Orkney border. She’s wearing a mail shirt, like she did when they faced the Saxons… and she doesn’t look well, Merlin finds. Her eyes seem to have grown huge in her pale face and there’s a haunted look in them that wasn’t there before. Merlin glances at Vivian who gives him a tiny, barely perceivable look; she’s noticed it, too.

Arthur makes his report about the skirmish with Cornwall, then he goes to watch the weapons practice; and to speak with Lancelot. Staying behind, Merlin decides there’s no time like the present to confront the young Queen.

“My Lady,” he says in a low voice that carries great authority nonetheless, “I’d like to speak with you. In private.”

At first it seems as if Morgan would protest – she can probably guess what he wants to talk about – but then nods in defeat.

“I’d prefer Vivian to be there, though,” she says, and Merlin nods.

“I’d have suggested it myself if you hadn’t,” he replies. “She’s known you for a long time; her insights might prove useful.”

They go to Morgan’s private chambers that are strangely bleak and unadorned. They don’t look as if a woman – and a young, beautiful woman at that – would live in them. In fact, they don’t look as if _anyone_ would live in them at all. The antechamber is furnished with a sideboard and high-backed chairs, all made of dark, polished wood, and there are cups and bottles and fruits in a wicker basket, so that visitors can be offered something toe at or drink and something to sit on, but nothing decorative is there. 

Nothing personal that would make it different from, say, the audience room.

These are not _Morgan_ ’s quarters. These are the quarters of _the Queen_ and probably haven’t changed much since King Uther’s death… aside from having been stripped of everything that would remind of the person who used to occupy them before.

Nothing else – certainly no _words_ – could better illustrate Morgan’s single-minded determination to keep throne, crown and power firmly in her hands. To _be_ the Queen. For her, nothing else matters, and Merlin briefly pities her, for this is a bleak, lonely existence. Now that she’s lost Sybil, lonelier than ever; and she might not know yet, but she’s about to lose Vivian, too – the only other person who truly cares for her.

And Vivian does care truly; for while Merlin is still trying to find the right words to start the conversation, she asks quietly.

“Are you having nightmares again?”

For a moment Merlin is shocked by yet another similarity between Morgan and Morgana; but the Queen simply nods.

“They’ve started as soon as you’ve left; as soon as _he’s_ left, I assume,” she adds with a sideways glance at Merlin, who understands the hint, of course. As long as he was here, his presence kept – whatever it is – at bay. It makes sense… if it is a magical attack.

“How long have you had these dreams?” he asks.

“Ever since I was a young girl,” replies Morgan. “Ever since…”

“Ever since you started drabbling in sorcery,” he finishes for her. “Such powers can be dangerous for the young, unshielded mind. Who was your tutor?”

“The first things – simple, everyday things like protective spells – I started learning from Sybil, as soon as I was sent to the convent,” Morgan sighs; _those_ must be good memories. Then her eyes darken and become haunted again. “Then, just as I turned fourteen, it began to visit me in my dreams. Taught me secrets and spells and practices without word, as if it had simply planted them in my mind. But when I woke up and gave them a try… they worked. Soon I understood that I can use that knowledge to get back my home… to claim my birthright, instead of rotting away in the nunnery… and soon I wanted _more_. And it _gave_ me more, and I took it all, with my eyes wide open, despite the price.”

“And the price was terrible,” adds Vivian quietly. “Sometimes I came to her chambers and there was blood everywhere… so much blood… I was so glad when she finally got what she wanted and stopped using the dark arts! But it seems stopping didn’t help much, did it?”

Morgan shakes her head mutely.

“What is _it_?” asks Merlin. “What does haunt you in your dreams?”

“I don’t know _what_ it is,” murmurs Morgan. “It travels in the shape of a wolf; a black wolf with glowing eyes. And it follows me everywhere.”

Merlin nods slowly. “Dreams are inclined to do that.”

“The wolf is more than just a dream,” says Vivian grimly. “Other people have seen it, too.”

“What other people?”

“Mater Sybil… and me. I saw it shortly after Morgan’s homecoming; in the night when King Uther died. And again when Merlin – the _other_ Merlin – first brought Arthur here. It circled the Castle for days, as if watching us. I don’t think it was a mere wolf, though.”

“Why not?”

“It looked me directly in the eyes, as if it knew me. No ordinary wolf does that.”

Merlin nods because that is certainly true.

“What can it be then?” asks Morgan.

“There are two possibilities,” says Merlin thoughtfully. “Either it is a manifestation of the dark arts you’ve been dabbling in since your youth – the evil taking on visible shape…”

“Is that possible?” Vivian shivers a little.

“It is extremely rare, but not impossible,” answers Merlin, measuring his words carefully. “But since the wolf exists in the flesh, as you say, I rather think it is something else. Something that can change its skin.”

“An Elven warlock,” says Vivian. “A shapeshifter.”

“One of those Courtless types,” adds Merlin. “Since they live alone, outside Elven society and owe fealty to no-one, it may be that one of them is trying to subjugate Queen Morgan to gain a realm of its own through her.”

“How do you know so much about Elves, all of a sudden?” asks Morgan in suspicion.

“While we were in Camelot, their Winter Lord made an appearance, together with his ally, the Fall Princess,” explains Merlin. “They told us a great deal of surprising things, and they put a glamour on the old castle that lasted three days altogether. Not only did we get to see what it was like in its heyday; we also could see into its memories. Honestly, I’m still trying to sort out all that knowledge suddenly dropped onto my lap.”

“It _is_ confusing,” admits Vivian. “But it may prove helpful if we want to ban the wolf.”

“ _We_?” echoes Morgan, looking at her as if she’d see her for the first time. “You mean yourself, too, don’t you? What happened to you – to your marks – there? They look like molten gold now.”

“They _felt_ like molten gold when Merlin read them and magic began to course in my veins like living fire,” says Vivian dryly. “Apparently, we both have Elven blood – and so do you.”

Morgan shakes her head in disbelief. “That is ridiculous!”

“And yet it is true,” says Merlin. “According to Princess Tindómiel, you have descended on your mother’s line from Mab, the previous Winter Queen, and her mortal consort Ailill, the first Lord of Camelot.”

“You’ve gone mad!” Morgan still can’t quite believe him, and Merlin laughs.

“It is a long and complicated story, and we’ll gladly share it with you – and everything else we’ve learned in Camelot. First, however, we must deal with the wolf, whatever it truly is. Elven monarchs – even those of mixed blood – are bound to their realm in ways no mortal King or Queen can be. If you keep weakening, the lands around the Castle will soon begin to wither and die – and that will further weaken you, until you fade away and the realm turns into a barren wasteland.”

“But why would the wolf want _that_?” asks Morgan.

Merlin shrugs. “If it’s a Courtless warlock indeed, there might not be a reason. Courtless are born insane and some of them delight in death and destruction, it’s said. Whatever the truth might be, we’ll learn it when we confront the wolf.”

“And how are you planning to do that?” demands Morgan.

“I assume you do have a method to call it,” says Merlin, and her silence is answer enough. “You must summon it, and then we’ll see how to get rid of it, once and forever.”

“When, do you think, would be the right time to do it?” asks Vivian.

“Not now; and certainly not for a while,” replies Merlin promptly. “We’ve just had a new moon, which is the time the Courtless are the strongest, since they are born in the Moon of Void. Our best choice would be during the full moon, when they are the weakest and the powers of earth and water – _your_ powers – the strangest.”

“’Tis a good thing then that I shall have a little time to learn how to control them,” comments Vivian dryly, “or I’d be of little use for you.”

“But what of the wolf?” asks Morgan. “Will you let it roam freely in the meantime?”

“Don’t worry,” says Merlin with quiet competence. “It won’t dare to come close when I’m here. And once Vivian has learned how to use her powers, she’ll be able to shield you just as well.”

He doesn’t reveal that Vivian won’t remain in Castle Pendragon much longer. Morgan has enough to deal with right now. And later, when they’ve banned the wolf, he might even teach her how to use real magic, instead of the dark arts, to protect herself. She’s the progeny of the Winter Queen, after all, and the Winter-born are the most magically gifted of all the seasonal courts.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Arthur watches Lancelot putting the men-at-arm through yet another practice in hand-to-hand combat with a sense of satisfaction. The men are looking a great deal more like proper warriors now; they’ve done a good job training them.

“How did people react to Harwel’s death?” Arthur then asks, and Lancelot shrugs.

“The general opinion seems to be that everyone’s better off without him. He was way too ambitious for his own good and didn’t care whom he ran over in the process. Besides, you’re still the hero who spared them a war with the Saxons, so no need to worry about your reputation.”

“That can change very quickly if we cannot end the border war with Orkney, soon,” comments Arthur darkly, and Lancelot’s grin vanishes, too.

“How bad is it?” he asks, and Arthur sighs.

“Not too bad yet; not as _we_ understand _bad_ , after all that Morgana has put us through. Bad enough for the simple folk, though. Orkney’s men might be a bunch of mercenaries, but since they had rainsacked the keep of Lord Leodegrance, that border is practically unprotected.”

Lancelot nods. “I know. And Guinevere can hardly defend the keep on her own. She’s not that kind of woman.”

“Unless you marry her and take over the keep,” says Arthur in half-jest, but Lancelot isn’t laughing.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he admits. “Now that her marriage with Lord Leontes has been annulled, she’s free to marry again. Wedding her would make me a landed lord of _this_ realm, and I could fortify the keep and watch the border for Morgan.”

“Won’t you reconsider?” Arthur all but pleas. “Merlin might have found a way to get us home in six months’ time.”

“And what, pray tell, should I do at home?” asks Lancelot bitterly. “Your father would never tolerate me among the Knights of Camelot, and Gwen… Gwen has chosen _you_. I haven’t got anything – or any _one_ – to go home for. Here, I can build a new life for myself.”

“Gwen may change her mind about us yet,” says Arthur slowly, “seeing that I shan’t marry her, after all.”

“Why not?” the shock is clearly written in Lancelot’s handsome face. “I thought you loved her!”

“I do,” admits Arthur, “but if I’ve learned anything from Morgan, it’s this: I have to consider the good of Camelot, first and foremost. When I’m King, I’ll no longer belong to myself. I’ll have to marry somebody through whom I can strengthen Camelot; a blacksmith’s daughter isn’t suited for that, no matter what I might feel for her.”

“That’s harsh,” comments Lancelot.

“That’s how things _are_ , if someone finally grows up,” sighs Arthur. “Not everyone can be as lucky as my father was; he, at least could marry someone he truly loved… not that it lasted long.”

“Do you have your eyes on a suitable princess already?” asks Lancelot with biting sarcasm, but Arthur ignores his tone.

“Well, I don’t think Princess Elena of Gawant would give me a second chance, even though she _would_ make an excellent Queen,” he muses. “And King Olaf’s spoiled daughter wouldn’t be _my_ first choice, although she might do, if everything else fails. There’s Princess Mithian, of course, the heiress of Nemeth. Marrying her would end a long-ongoing dispute over Gedref and secure us a new alliance.”

“Have you ever met her?” asks Lancelot. Arthur shakes his head.

“No; and it’s probably the best. We can enter an alliance without preconceptions.”

“You shouldn’t have led Gwen on in the first place,” says Lancelot accusingly.

“I know,” replies Arthur ruefully. “To my defence, I truly believed that I could marry her, despite the misgivings of my father. I was young and terribly naïve. Getting here by accident opened my eyes for a great many things I couldn’t – or wouldn’t – understand before.”

“Like Merlin and his magic?” asks Lancelot. 

Arthur shakes his head again. “Oh no, I’m still struggling to come to terms with _that_. I meant the responsibility for an entire kingdom and how it must be considered way above the matter of personal desires.”

“How mature of you, all of a sudden,” comments Lancelot dryly. “So you’ve decided to let Gwen go, for the good of Camelot, and hope that I’d come back and pick up the pieces? I must disappoint you, _sire_.” The emphasis he gives the title almost makes it an insult; Merlin would be proud if he could hear it. “I, too, have made my choice, and I stand to it.”

“But if you don’t come back with us, Lord Leontes might not be able to return home, either,” points out Arthur.

Lancelot shrugs. “That would be unfortunate; although he doesn’t have much to return to, either. My decision stands, however. I’ve spent all my adult life doing things on behalf of other people; including _you_. ‘Tis time for me to do something for myself.”

There’s enough truth in that statement to silence Arthur, although he still believes it’s wrong to prevent Lord Leontes from coming home. But he cannot force Lancelot to do what _he_ thinks is the right thing. Merlin is the only one who _might_ be able to talk the knight out of his decision, the two of them being closer friends than Lancelot has ever been with anyone, but Arthur doubts that Merlin would even try. _Because_ they are close friends. He’d want Lancelot to have a good life… to be happy here, if he can.

“Do you truly believe you’ll be happy here?” he asks. “With _this_ Guinevere? As I heard she isn’t the faithful kind of woman.”

“I know,” Lancelot nods. “Fortunately, I don’t _love_ her; not the way I loved _our_ Gwen. _If_ we marry, it will be a marriage of convenience that will help her redeem her reputation and establish me as a lord of the realm. To _have_ a life, for the first time since our village was destroyed back home,” he shrugs. “And she’s a skilled lover, which will make our bond… well, _convenient_.”

Again, there’s much truth in that. The Lady Guinevere might be a bit too generous while spreading her favours, but she’s a great beauty, _and_ a noblewoman with a keep and lands to her name. All that would belong to Lancelot, if they married; and Morgan would be glad to have Guinevere firmly chained to her throne, while far away from Camelot, since Lancelot would have to protect the border.

This would be a solution where everyone wins. Everyone but Lord Leontes, that is.

“Do you think she’ll marry you?” he asks.

Lancelot smirks. “Queen Morgan has empathically advised her to do so. I’m quite certain that she’ll give in, eventually. Living in her father’s keep on her own isn’t something she’d prefer; especially as her cousin Birgit left with Sir Kay and will marry him, soon.”

“Morgan threatened to banish her?”

It isn’t that Arthur is surprised by the possibility. Morgan has already voiced her wish to have _the whore of the former King_ out of her court. He just haven’t expected her to act so quickly; although he should have. Morgan doesn’t waste any time, once she’s made up her mind about something.

“Not directly,” replies Lancelot. “She just told Guinevere that it would be important to reinforce the keep now, in face of the danger represented by Orkney. _And_ she entrusted the task to me, seeing that I did such a good job at Bardon Pass. We shall leave at first light in the morning, with the fresh troops. We’ve just been waiting for you to return.”

“So, this is farewell then?” asks Arthur; he’ll miss Lancelot, and he knows Merlin will miss him, too.

“For a while,” replies the knight. “I hope we’ll see you at our wedding, should it ever happen; and I’ll come to see you off when it’s time for you to go home.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Lancelot and Guinevere leave in the next morning indeed, with as many men-at-arms as Arthur can give them, without leaving the royal seat unprotected. Of course, Merlin is back now, so they are actually safer than if they were surrounded by an entire army, but Arthur doesn’t want people to become dependant on Merlin’s powers.

Especially as Merlin will – hopefully – leave in less than half a year, and they will have to keep the realm safe on their own.

He spends the nights in Morgan’s chambers, just to keep her company, but the nightmares do not return. Either the wolf – whatever it truly is – fears Merlin’s presence, or it has got distracted by other things, it’s hard to tell. In either case, Arthur is relieved. Morgan, however, is not.

“It’s just a matter of time,” she says tiredly. “If it’s truly one of those Courtless Elves, as Merlin and Vivian think, it will be back. I want it gone; preferable before I have my child. What if it’s waiting for the child to take it? Elves are known to do that; and wasn’t that what _our_ Merlin did? Take Arthur from Igraine right after his birth?”

“Merlin is not an Elf,” points out Arthur. “Neither ours, nor yours.”

“But both have Elven blood, or so Merlin and Vivian learned,” reminds him Morgan. “Apparently, the Winter Queen, who was my ancestor, created _our_ Merlin by mixing the blood of mortals with that of the Courtless, some six hundred years ago, to keep my line on the throne and lead people back to the Old Ways.”

“Well, he clearly did the exact opposite,” says Arthur, “trying his level best to keep you from claiming your birthright.”

Morgan nods. “According to the Elves, they had a fall-out, and Merlin turned against the Winter Queen, causing her downfall. But if the wolf is truly one of those shape-shifting Elves… could it be Merlin’s ancestor? We don’t even know which of his parents was an Elf; but Elves have long lives, don’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know,” admits Arthur. “The only ones we’ve got at home are the Sidhe: this small,” he shows, holding his hands apart, “pale blue and vaguely malevolent. One of them tried to kill me once because she was exiled and a prince’s heart would have been the price of getting back to her own kind.”

“How did you escape?”

“At the time I thought I was just incredibly lucky. Now I assume that Merlin must have had something to do with it,” he thinks for a moment. “In fact, he must have had a hand in all that unexpected luck I’ve been having, ever since he showed up in Camelot for the first time.”

“Risking his life all the time to save yours,” says Morgan thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, I’ve been wondering: why is magic outlawed in _your_ Camelot?”

“Because of me,” replies Arthur grimly. “My mother was barren, but a King needs an heir. So my father asked Nimueh for help: a great sorceress and the high priestess of the Old Religion. She did help; but she failed to warn my father that for creating a new life with the help of magic, a life must be sacrificed. My mother died in childbirth, and my father went quite mad with grief, relentlessly pursuing magic users and putting them to death. It was called the Great Purge; but the ban of magic has never been lifted.”

“The perhaps it’s time to change things, once you become King,” says Morgan. “Now that you’ve seen all the good magic can do…”

“I’ve also seen all the horror magic can do,” returns, Arthur. “Morgana and Morgause all but destroyed Camelot. People suffered horribly; and it broke my father’s heart.”

“It was him who wanted an heir, at any costs,” reminds him Morgan.

“Isn’t that what _you_ are doing?” shoots back Arthur, but Morgan doesn’t even blink.

“Of course it is,” she admits readily. “I might have claimed my birthright, but in this world of men I can only stay Queen if I give birth to a King.”

“Or marry one,” suggests Arthur.

It earns him an icy glare.

“I would never burden myself with a man and allow him to interfere with my reign,” she says. “I am a Ruling Queen, not merely the wife of a King, and I do not intend to change that. I’ve seen my fair share of Kings, from my father through Lot to my brother and frankly, I’m not impressed with them.”

“So you think you can do better?”

“I _know_ I can do better,” corrects Morgan. “I already _have_ done better, despite repeated attempts to wrestle the throne from me. And if _your_ Merlin can help me get rid of the wolf, then I’ll hopefully be free to do my duty unhindered.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, this is how far I've come with the finished chapters. Therefore updates won't be quite this regular in the near future. I hope I'll be able to finish the entire story in a couple more chapters, but that might take some time. I know where I want to go with the two plot lines, but I'm still a bit unsure how to get there. So please, bear with me, I swear it won't take forever (this time).


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